


The Five Finger Job

by kriegersan



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Dark Comedy, Drug Use, F/M, Gore, Gunplay, M/M, Misogyny, Past Child Abuse, Squick, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-09-21 06:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 67,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9536591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriegersan/pseuds/kriegersan
Summary: "I could feel like I was losing you, so I pushed you harder. I thought that-- that was how to keep you in the game, and I didn't want to lose you-- I've said that already, haven't I?"(2004. A series of increasingly bad decisions leading up the one that would haunt Michael Townley for the next nine years.)





	1. THE THUMB

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to the lovely Cephied_Variable ([Tumblr](http://cephiedvariable.tumblr.com)/[AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephied_Variable/pseuds/Cephied_Variable)) for following me blindly into Car Steal Yaoi hell.

It was almost midnight when the phone started ringing. Michael lazily turned his head to stare down the handset through the hallway to the kitchen. He was nursing his third or fourth whiskey, somewhere in the middle of a late-night movie marathon that he was only somewhat paying attention to, and the phone had the audacity to interrupt him. 

He hadn’t been able to sleep. He was rarely ever able to sleep, in fact. As much as the hours spent silently lying next to Amanda with her back facing him were what he was supposed to want, well. It was hard to sleep.

He brought the glass to his mouth, the rim clinking against his teeth, and hoped that the phone would stop ringing by sheer virtue of will. It kept ringing. If the kids woke up, it’d be a whole other problem. Probably fucking telemarketers in Bangkok, calling this time of night.

It didn’t stop. Michael finished off his whiskey, and sighed with resignation. He was about to haul himself off the couch, when it abruptly stopped. He relaxed once more. Moments later, the paisley pattern of Amanda’s housecoat wandered into his line of sight, and she thrust the cordless phone into his face. 

“It’s for you,” she said, curtly. She waved it at him, his knuckles bumping the phone once, before he curled his hand around it more firmly. Amanda huffed. “I thought you told him after the last time this happened not to call the house anymore. You have a fucking cell phone, Michael, it’s--”

He rolled his eyes at her, and brought the phone to his ear in lieu of dismissal. “Y’ello?”

Amanda pulled a face and crossed her arms under her breasts, before tearing off back to the bedroom. There was no immediate answer on the other end of the line, and Michael scowled, the lines in his forehead deepening.

“T?” he said, quieter, gauging the reaction on the other end of the line.

There was a fumbling noise on the other line, before someone was panting, the spaces between breaths filled with sad laughter. “M! Mikey, you fucker, what’s goin’ on?”

Michael leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his head falling into his hands. “What the fuck, man, I told you not to call the landline. At this fuckin’ time of night, especially.”

“Christ, Mike, Amanda has you by the balls so tight they’ve probably inverted by now. It past your bedtime?”

“Can you not--” Say that about her, use first names over the phone, be a fucking asshole, the list went on. Michael drew in a tight breath. “What do you want, T? Why’re you calling?”

He heard Trevor sniff wetly over the phone. Probably a few days into a binge. That’d been happening a lot more, lately, weeks on end that he drifted off into the unreachable places at the edge of society.

“Just wanted to check in. That thing that people do when they generally _care_ about the wellbeing of others-- not that you would know. How’s Tracey? She’s gettin’ pretty big these days, ain’t she? And Jim? How-- how are the kids?”

“Uh, they’re great. Asleep right now, given that it’s fucking midnight.”

“ _Right_ , right, right, right. So, uh, how how about you, M? How are you doin’?”

“I’m--”

“You sound fat. I can practically hear your arteries clogging from over here. You need to get off your ass, stop wasting away in that cage of domesticity, man! Get you off your leash for once.”

“Oh, yeah, I can see how insulting me would be a huge motivator to come hang out with you.”

“Don’t be such a little bitch, Mikey, come on! Don’t fuckin’ take it like that.”

“Mm, so there’s a better way for me to take you--”

“I miss you, man,” said Trevor, abruptly. 

Michael sighed. “T. Come on.”

“We don’t talk like we used to. You never wanna hang out anymore. Really starting to think you don’t give a shit about old T these days.”

“You seriously called me _now_ to tell me that?” His fingers curled tightly around the phone, temper starting to rise. He glanced over his shoulder, halfway worried one of the kids would wake up. His voice lowered to a hiss. “Are you high?”

“What, you fucking think I have to be _high_ to want to talk to you? How self-loathing can you be, Michael?”

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Oh, _no_ , T, I couldn’t possibly think you’re using on account of the heavy breathing, how psychotic you sound, the aggression, nah, couldn’t possibly be any of that. Or just the fucking fact that I _know_ you, T.” 

“You don’t _really_ know me anymore, M. I go to all this fuckin’ trouble to call you and you don’t even ask me how I am? You’re a selfish, self-absorbed, self-aggrandizing motherfucker, that’s what you are.” There was a loud clang, likely where some innocent object had caught the first brush of Trevor’s temper. “I don’t know why I fucking bother with you at all anymore. You can’t even _pretend_ to give a shit.” 

There was this twinge in his chest at Trevor’s words, but he swallowed it down. Things had been a little weird between them since he’d begged off their last job. The older the kids got, the harder it was to disappear for months at a time. 

Michael switched the phone to the other ear, worried a hangnail on his thumb in his mouth. “T, I--” The words died in his throat, and he tried again. “So… uh, how are you?” 

It sounded lame, even to him. He winced. 

“Well, M, since you finally bothered to ask how I am, well-- I am, indeed, tripping _balls_ right about now.”

Michael snorted. “Wow.”

“Oh, mister judgment, there, like you aren’t fucking half-cut yourself.”

He looked pointedly at the half-finished bottle of liquor, before pushing it out of his eyeline on the coffee table. He unleashed a heavy sigh, rubbing at the lines on his forehead. “Where are you right now?”

“Outside.”

“Yeah? Outside where?”

“ _Outside_ , Michael, the place people go when they aren’t wasting away on their fat ass watching the same fucking movie for the hundredth millionth time.”

He made a face, eyes flicking to the television. He hadn’t seen it _that_ many times. 

Trevor laughed in the wake of his silence. “Jesus, you are _so_ fucking predictable. All you ever do is--”

“Okay, look,” Michael started, temper steadily rising, “if you’re just going to be a dick and insult me, I’m gonna hang up the phone. What do you want, T?”

There was a long pause over the line. Michael pulled it away from his ear to check that the light was still on, that Trevor hadn’t hung up on him. “T--”

“You really don’t know me at all anymore, do you? Did you ever?” There was a choked laugh on the other end of the line. “Fuck me, I must be a real idiot ever putting a shred of faith in you.”

“T. Come on.” He softened somewhat, slouching back on the sofa. “Just tell me what you want, man.”

“I already told you, you just never fucking listen to me.” Some of the fight had gone out of his voice. Michael could practically picture the way Trevor would lean into the box, payphone pressed tight to his ear, highway trucks screaming by on the blacktop behind him. “I wanna see you.”

Michael glanced over his shoulder to make sure Amanda wasn’t hanging around behind him, listening in. He turned his body into the phone, cupping it closer to his ear. “L’s workin’ on a job for us. You know that. We’ll see each other soon, we need your wings, bro.”

He needed that fucking job to go through. He’d been itching for a score.

“No, not for fucking work shit, you stupid asshole, I wanna see _you_.”

He sucked his teeth. “We’ve talked about why I can’t just--”

“Do you even hear yourself, you selfish _fuck_? Do you fucking hear the bullshit that comes out of your mouth?”

“I’ve got a family, T, I can’t just--”

“Would you even give a shit if I just disappeared one day?” His voice was low, gravelly, made Michael’s gut twist in guilt. “What would it take Michael, for you to-- do I have to ‘accidentally’ OD on purpose? Slit my fucking wrists?” His voice cracked, high and strung out, and there was the distinct sound of a fist connecting with metal over the line. “Is that what it would take for you to act like a human being, for once?”

Michael sat quietly for a moment, listening to Trevor breathe over the phone. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, his eyebrows drawing downward. “Where are you right now?”

“Oh, fuck you. Don’t pretend like you’re gonna come.”

“Would you just answer the fuckin’ question.”

There was a sniff, the sound of something shuffling, before Trevor finally answered. “Uh… Valley City.”

It wasn’t an insignificant drive. A state line over. Close enough in the radius of the job that it’d attract some heat if Trevor did something drastic. It had to be on purpose.

“Where you stayin’?”

“VC Airport Chalet. It’s right off the highway-- you can’t miss it.”

“Room number?”

“204.”

“Great. Don’t go anywhere.”

Trevor made a low noise. “Don’t you fuck with me, Michael, don’t you _fuck_ with me. I know you ain’t coming.”

“I just told you not to go anywhere, didn’t I?” 

“What, so you can call someone to take me out? Put a bullet in my head, put me outta my misery? I hear suicide by cop is great way to go this time of year.”

He could picture it. Damn, if he couldn’t picture it. It would make things easier. Just another junkie bleeding out in the gutter. Just another guy who made bad decisions. Just nobody worth anything.

“Come on, T, it’s just the speed making you paranoid. Don’t--”

“Your life would be a hell of a lot easier if I just went away, wouldn’t it, Mikey? You always like to pretend I don’t exist, don’t you? Until you need me. I could make it reality. I swear I could. Everytime I call you to hang, you always tell me ‘later’. Later, later, later, like I’m a fucking errand to you that you keep putting off. I could just take care of it for you.” Another sniff. “That’s what I always do, Mikey, take care of your _shit_.”

Panic rose in his chest, but he pushed it down, kept his voice steady, laughed, even. “You’re just fucking with me. You wouldn’t go there.”

“Oh, sugar,” Trevor said, darkly. “I think we’ve firmly established, after all these years, that I _would_.”

“Just to, what, _punish_ me?” he hissed, struggling to maintain composure. “Really? Are you fucking kidding me?”

There was no answer. Nothing but the sound of the phone dangling from its cord, knocking against the phone booth where it had been left.

“T?”

After a moment, the dial tone sounded. Michael pulled the phone away from his ear, consumed with the urge to hurl it across the room and watch it smash into pieces. He took a deep breath, and threw it listlessly to the couch cushions where it landed with a soft plop.

He poured another drink. He didn’t toss it back immediately, just let the glass sit in his palm, felt the weight of it against his fingers. 

There was no way. Trevor was self-destructive, sure, but he wouldn’t do anything that stupid. Michael shook his head, flicking his eyes back up to the television. He leaned back, ready to settle back into comfortable insomnia. It hadn’t been the first time Trevor had called him in that state, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Michael sighed. The clock ticked overhead, the steady click of the second hand. It seemed to drown out all other sound, until it was all he could focus on.

“Fuck,” he muttered, setting his glass down with a heavy thunk onto the coffee table. He picked up the phone, and dialed another number.

It rang for a few moments. Then, it was picked up on the other end. “Speak.”

“It’s me.”

“Ah,” said Lester, his tone dismissive. He heard typing in the background, the electronic hollow sound of some video game or another. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until--”

“Yeah, I know. But we’ve got a problem.”

“Well, we shouldn’t. I’ve spent weeks ironing out the technicalities.”

“Not a technical problem. Another T-related problem.”

“Hmm. I see.” 

“There’s nobody else we can get on this, huh.”

“On such short notice? No, I don’t think it’s possible. Besides, you know he’s the best shot we’ve got.”

“Fuck me, don’t I know it," he muttered. “Think you could wear him down, L?”

“Me? I don’t know if that would work. If he’s, ahem, _misbehaving_ you’re the best person to rein him back in, you know that. He listens to you.”

“Oh he does, does he?”

“Well, he used to, anyway. But I’ve got faith in you.”

Michael sighed. “At least someone does. Shit. I’ll call you soon.”

“Good luck.”

The line went dead on the other end, the phone listlessly left to the pillows once more. He rose to his feet, felt the room swim around him, before he stalked off in the direction of the bedroom.

Lamplight bled out through the crack in the door, and he shouldered through, Amanda looking up at him as he entered. He looked away before he could catch the expression on her face, already knowing how she was going to take it, and beelined for the closet. 

“So, what did he want?” she asked, sitting upright against the copious amounts of overstuffed pillows she’d insisted on having. 

He glanced back at her, dragging the duffle bag down from the top shelf, already anticipating the verbal lashing he was going to get as she realized what was happening. He crouched down to the bottom of the closet, reaching for the lockbox hidden under the base, hoping his body would conceal exactly what he was going for. A 9mm and a wad of cash ought to do it. He packed a few extra clips just in case, then tucked the box back beneath, locking it.

“Michael.”

“I gotta go, I gotta--” He stood up, wiping a hand over his mouth as he stared at the closet full of Amanda’s shirts on hangers, his own little section crammed into the side. “Work stuff, ‘Mand, don’t worry about it.”

“It didn’t sound like ‘work stuff’ to me, Michael. That’s the third time this month he’s called in that state. It scares me when he gets like that, and--” 

“You worry too much.” 

He pulled a wrinkled overshirt off the hanger, balled it up and haphazardly shoved it into the duffle. He stumbled bending over, before the duffle bag was unceremoniously ripped off the ground. Amanda deposited it on the end of the bed and pulled the shirt back out, picking it up by the collar to fold it.

She looked at him, the lines under her eyes pronounced in the dull, warm light. “Michael…”

He stood up straight, finally giving her a good look. Exhaling noisily, he stepped over, pulling the folded shirt out of her hands with some effort. “I know, baby, but--”

“I don’t want you taking off for days on end and disappearing on me just because he can’t control himself,” Amanda said, tightly. She reached for the shirt. “What he does isn’t your respon--”

“I told you, it ain’t that.” He kept himself busy, stepping over to the set of drawers, digging through the smallest one in search of underwear. “Just work shit I gotta deal with. No big deal.”

“But you’ll be back in a day or so?”

“Yeah, or so,” he said, over his shoulder, as he rifled around in the drawer. His hands didn’t seem to want to listen to him.

“God, Michael-- the other drawer.” She stepped into his space to pull open the opposite handle, nudging him out of the way. “Jesus, you reek like booze. Just let me do it, I can’t stand watching you fumble around in the dark like an idiot for one more second.”

Michael stepped back, sunk down onto the edge of the bed next to the duffle. He watched Amanda place stacks of his clothes, neatly folded, between him and the bag, her housecoat swinging around like some kind of cape as she saved him from himself for not the first time in his miserable life.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, looking out towards the window. It was a clear night at least. The summer had been kind, drifting into fall, leaves starting to turn.

“--think that’s about it for clothes, you’ll just need a-- Michael, are you even listening to me?” 

“What?” He looked back up at her, realizing that she’d been speaking directly to him for some time. He cleared his throat. “Say again?”

Amanda sighed. “A jacket? You’ll need one, it’s starting to get cooler out at night.” 

“Oh, yeah.”

“Michael,” she started, and his face going tight, already preparing himself for the impending guilt trip. She reached forward, her hand landing on his shoulder, touch light. “Baby, is-- is everything... okay?” 

He covered her hand with his own, almost wanting to move it away. He kept it there, pinned under his. Her skin was so soft against his own. He stared at their hands, at the slow drag of his thumb against the outside of her palm. “Yeah, Mandy, I told you. Everything’s fine.”

“So... I shouldn’t be concerned for our family’s safety while you’re gone, wherever the hell it is that you’re going?”

“Amanda, nothing’s gonna happen to you or the kids,” Michael said, reasonably assured that it was somewhere in the vicinity of the truth. “I just gotta--”

“You’re worried about him, aren’t you? This is about him. It’s like you think I can’t put two and two together,” she said, cutting straight through his shit as she often did. Her hand slipped out of his hold as she crossed her arms, closed off to him once again. “You’re not a kid anymore, Michael, you can’t take off into the night and abandon your family and your responsibilities just because your junkie pal got in over his head again.”

“Look, we--” He cut himself off, struggling to swallow down the first flares of anger starting to rise at being told what to do. Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, before standing up, eye to eye with his wife. She stepped back out of his space, her fingers creating imprints in her housecoat from how tightly she was holding her arms. “It’s for work, Amanda. End of discussion.”

“But--”

He raised a hand to silence her. “I said _end of discussion_.”

Amanda stared at him harshly for a moment, before the soft edges started to creep back in. She slouched, walking away from him to the connected bathroom, the lights flicking on, yellowish and sickly. “The way you drop everything at a moment’s notice, Michael, sometimes, I swear...” she muttered, her voice hollow against the walls, the sentence hanging there like a barrier between them.

Michael stared at the profile of her face, not looking at him, her slept-on hair, the mascara smudged under her eyes. “You swear? You swear what?”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, no. Finish what you were gonna say, Amanda. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

She shot him a look, her lips pursed. “Don’t do this. Michael, it was nothing, I was just being--”

“Didn’t feel like nothing. Say what you were gonna say.”

“Just--” She sighed. Her voice got smaller, almost cautious. “It’s almost like you’re in love with him, sometimes.” 

He chuckled, this cruel thing that rolled out of his mouth. “Oh yeah? Wasn’t it you who told me a few weeks ago that you didn’t think I was _capable_ of love? ‘Cause you’re giving me some pretty fucking mixed messages here.”

She didn’t respond. He wiped a hand over his mouth. His palms had started to sweat. 

The light flicked off once more, and Amanda stepped out and unceremoniously dumped his toiletries into the duffle before leaning over to zip it up. She grabbed for the handle, one arm still clutched around her body, and offered it to him like it was diseased. “There.”

Michael untangled the handle from her fingers, left it dangling from his hand. “Thank you.”

He stood there for a moment, taking in the look in her eyes, how distant she seemed. They’d been doing so well lately, too. He’d been _trying_. They’d fucked a few times that month without any embarrassing incidents, only a few fights where’d they’d got to screaming levels. He’d made her laugh again. He was trying to be better.

“Mandy, look,” Michael said, holding her eyes when she peered back up at him, “I promise I’ll be back before you or the kids know it. Nobody’ll even notice I’m gone.”

At least, until the next job. He’d be gone for longer, then, getting up to nothing good, but that wasn’t the point right now.

Amanda’s brows drew in together. “Michael, you--” She closed her eyes and drew in a deep, even breath. “I need you back here by Saturday. Please.”

“Saturday?” He wracked his brain, but nothing came up. “Why, what’s happening on Saturday?”

She scoffed. “I suppose at this point I shouldn’t be surprised at how self-absorbed you are, but you always find a new and exciting way to lower the bar even further, don’t you?”

“So are you just gonna bitch at me about it, or are you gonna tell me what’s happening on Saturday?”

Amanda look at him, incredulous. “Tracey’s birthday? The party I’ve spent the last three weeks putting together? You asked me about the extra charges on the card for the decorations two days ago?”

“Oh, shit. That’s _this_ Saturday?”

Three days. He could make it back in three days. No problem.

“Yes, Michael,” Amanda said to him, slowly, like they didn’t speak the same language. “Your only daughter’s birthday is this Saturday. Surprisingly, falling on the same date it is every year. You said you’d pick up the cake from the bakery.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

She looked off for a moment, holding herself tightly. “Michael, if you miss her birthday...”

His stomach twisted. He reached for her with his free hand, pulled at her to move closer. She stood rigid for a moment, before reluctantly stepping into his arms. He pressed a kiss against her temple, then tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, sweetly, the way he’d done it the first few times they’d fucked. 

“You can count on me, Mandy. Back before you notice I’m gone, I swear.”

She didn’t immediately respond. They swayed together for a moment. She let her head rest on his shoulder. It was nice, and she was warm, felt soft against his body. His thoughts drifted. Blood on the pavement. Nobody worth anything.

“You know,” she murmured, into the quiet, “sometimes I wish he’d just die already.”

Michael went still. He couldn’t help the awful laugh that bubbled out. “Jesus, Amanda. You can be a real cold-hearted bitch, sometimes, you know that?”

Amanda exhaled loudly, her mouth pulling into a scowl. She stepped back, looking up at him. “Just be back by Saturday, okay? I don’t know if Tracey will ever forgive you if you aren’t here.” 

“I will be.”

He leaned in, his hand sliding up her neck. He felt her pulse flutter under his fingers. It’d be so easy to just clamp down, force her to bend to his will. But he wouldn’t. He wasn’t that kind of man.

“I love you, ‘Mand.”

She kissed him, and it was chaste, as if out of obligation. She didn’t say anything to him, only watched him with those big, doubtful eyes.

He hefted the duffle onto his shoulder, and took a step back towards the door. “Saturday.”

“Saturday,” Amanda repeated, watching him leave yet again.

* * *

He bought a coffee on the way out of the next town, the beginnings of a hangover already seeping into the corners of his eyes. Ten, hell, five years ago he could drink all night, fuck and fight all day, but these days, the lifestyle, it came out of his pores.

One pack of cigarettes, choked down in the first four hours. He stopped at a 24/7 for a piss, then rounded to the sticky counters for a watery, old coffee out of one of the carafes. His fingers skimmed the rows for gum and snacks, his eyes darting up to the counter to see how much the kid was paying attention.

The radio was on, the early morning news reports starting to trickle in. Michael stepped up to the counter, unable to stop his eyes from scanning for security cameras, looking for obvious places where the a gun might be stored under the counter. He had a piece under his jacket. He could rob the place if he really wanted, and if the kid got on his bad side, well. It was that kind of night.

“Hey, uh,” he said, setting the cup of lukewarm coffee on the counter, “Gimme two packs of Redwoods. The unfiltered ones.”

The kid ambled over to the display, turning his back to Michael as he selected the packs. Michael looked at the back of his head, at the soft indentation at the base of the kid’s skull. He leaned his forearms against the counter, his knee knocking against the displays of candy below. He reached downward and pocketed a candy bar, just for something to do with his hands.

Two packs of smokes slid on the counter before him, and he stood back, reaching for his wallet. He looked at the kid as he rang him up. He was thin, almost too tall, trying and failing at growing a mustache. He probably wouldn’t put up much of a fight. He was probably just out of high school.

“Anything else, man?” 

Michael paused, considering. 

“Yeah, shit, you know what-- I better grab a case of beer.”

He went to the cooler and pulled out a case by the soggy cardboard handle. As he turned back to the counter, it had become clear the kid was absorbed in the radio again, had entirely zoned out. Again, Michael considered.

“Crazy shit, ain’t it?” said the kid, absently. “You been listening to the news?”

“No, the news is fuckin’ depressing,” said Michael, setting the beer on the counter. “Why would I want to listen to depressing shit? I already got a wife for that.”

“Man, just the state of the world these days.” The kid started bagging his purchases, continuing, “I guess the cops found a bunch of chopped up body parts a few towns over.”

Michael stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, before he started fishing out bills. “Oh?”

“Yeah, crazy, right? You’d never think that kind of stuff would happen way out here. In the cities, sure, maybe, but here?” He took the bills Michael offered, leaving the till wide open. Not an insignificant amount of bills in there. “Hard to feel safe anywhere, anymore.”

The bell of the door clinked, and Michael glanced over his shoulder. Another customer had entered, a burly looking trucker who glanced in his direction as he passed to the cold beverages. 

He looked back at the kid, smirking. “You want some advice, kid?”

The kid handed him his change, his grin bearing crooked teeth. “If you’ve givin’ it, sure.”

“Buy a gun. Learn how to shoot it,” Michael said, flatly. “Be prepared for the day you find out just how safe you really are.”

The kid’s face faded, pale and washed out by the white light overhead. “Damn, dude. And you think the news is depressing,” he mumbled. “That’s ‘safety’ to you? Having the power to hurt other people?”

“Hey, if it means I’m not the one gettin’ hurt, sure.”

He shrugged a skinny shoulder. “It’s your funeral. I don’t like guns, though.”

Michael took the bag when offered by a weak grip, the coffee cup in hand, case of beer in the other. He nodded his head in way of goodbye, averting his eyes when the trucker looked at him as he walked out the door.

In the car, he devoured the stolen candy bar in one go, and threw the wrapper out the window as a small act of rebellion. He watched it blow away into the ditch, before turning his eyes forward as the pale sun started to peek over the horizon.

* * *

The VC Airport Chalet had maybe passed for a mediocre motel twenty years ago, when the paint had been eggshell white instead of off-yellow and chipping, and the grass hadn’t crept into the lines between the walkway to the entrance. Now it barely passed for a less than respectable shady piece of shit, rented by the hour, exactly the kind of place that he and Trevor used to frequent in the early days.

“Not even a fuckin’ airport nearby,” Michael muttered, stepping out of his vehicle, shades sliding low on the bridge of his nose. 

At half-past noon, there weren’t many cars parked in the lot. Michael walked past them on the way to the stairs to the second floor, and couldn’t see anything that immediately screamed of Trevor Philips. He took the steps two at a time, swinging himself around the guardrail to make it to the second floor.

Room 204 didn’t look any different from the others, didn’t give any impression of the chaotic force of nature that Michael vaguely hoped it contained. He stood outside for a moment, smoked a cigarette down to the bitter end, trying to pull himself together. All the driving had made his legs stiff, had given him plenty of time to simmer on just what he wanted to say to his old buddy.

He ground the cigarette down against the guardrail and flicked it off. The next door down, a middle-aged woman in a flimsy sundress stepped out of her own room, cigarette between her grubby fingers. Michael glanced at her as he turned, but she seemed to be minding her own business, for now.

He knocked, first. Waited. There was no answer, so he knocked again, swearing under his breath. The curtains were drawn completely shut, he couldn’t see anything through. He pulled out his phone, dialed Trevor’s number. It rang continuously, with no answer on the other line.

“Ah, fuck me.” He pocketed his phone, fighting the urge to fling it off the second floor, onto the pavement. “Fuckin’ cocksucker, of course you’d drag my ass all the way out here and not answer your fuckin’ phone.”

Michael sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, turning to look at the woman. She looked his way, brow cocked, cigarette still unlit between her teeth. “You lookin’ for someone, handsome?”

He tucked his hands into his pockets, nodding his head as he stepped towards her. “I guess that depends.”

“Depends on what?” 

“Depends on whether or not he actually wants to be found.”

She cracked a smile, her teeth blackened at the gum. “Sounds like a lucky guy, yeah, having a friend like you lookin’ out for him. Not many people come to a place like this up to anything good.” 

Michael nodded, sticking his chin out in thought. He pulled a lighter from his pocket, offering it to her. She gave him a suspicious look, but accepted after he waved it in her direction.

“So, then,” Michael said, leaning against the rail next to her, hands sliding into the depths of his pockets once more, “where _else_ would one go around here if they were up to no good?” 

She tilted her head, chuckling, the straw colored tips of her hair dragging the against her sun-spotted shoulder. Smoke plumed from her mouth as she spoke. “You could just wait. I seen him, you know, he comes back and forth and back and forth. You could just wait.”

“Nah, I ain’t got time to spend waiting around for his ass.” 

“You got something else to spend?” she said, giving him a look. “Time is money, honey.”

Michael chuckled. “That the only way you’ll tell me where I need to go?”

Her eyes were golden, wicked in the sunlight. “What do you think?”

* * *

Broken glass crunched underfoot. Michael looked upward, where the skylights had been punched out, the rays of the sun trickling through the cracks. Long ago, the Valley City mall had been a place inhabited by morally upstanding people, families frequenting the shops for a good bargain, teenage girls with their friends. Normal people doing normal things. Now, a relic, forgotten by the slow grind of time.

He lit a smoke as he strolled through the decrepit remains of the mall, gaze panning the beat down interiors of former stores. It wasn’t a small place, the parking lot outside had seemed to stretch on for miles, the square mass of the building barely visible from the highway as the overgrown trees and brush had begun to obscure it. The rusting sign hadn’t lit up for years, and there was no security patrol. Left entirely to nature.

Nearing the base of the escalators, there were signs of life. A group of teenage boys, tagging the walls. They looked at him as he walked past, territorial and posturing in the way young men with nothing to lose were. Michael kept moving. He wasn’t here for them.

The skydome overhead filtered the light blue, the atrium as deep as an ocean, as low down as the bottom of the sea. Michael stopped next to some overgrown planters, the vines spilling out onto the splintered tile floor. There were tents and dirty mattresses, tarps and coolers, needles and knives. A microcosm of a culture buried in the remnants of another.

Shadows moved along the walls, people in the corner in clusters on dirty mattresses, wary of police presence. A woman with a shopping cart yelled at him as she passed by, one of the wheels squealing and jiggling on the uneven ground.

Michael smoked his cigarette. He waited. He listened.

“--yeah? Yeah? Well I don’t give a fuck what you _think_ you were trying to say, I don’t take fucking kindly to you insinuating I’m some kind of liar, you piece of shit! I fucking paid you. I _expect_ to receive the full amount of product that I paid for. I asked you fucking nicely, now, _give me what I fucking paid for_.”

He stubbed out the cigarette beneath his boot, legs starting to move without thinking. He didn’t have to think. He just moved.

There, as if there was a spotlight centered over him, Trevor stood in the gauzy blue light of the skydome, almost dwarfed in a giant, matted fur jacket, his back facing Michael as he approached. He would’ve spotted him in a crowd anywhere, just from the back of his skull, just the sight of his thinning hair. He could find him out of a hundred. A thousand.

Two guys stood ahead of him, looking ready for a fight, but Trevor had a piece in his hand, seemed out of it. A delicate situation. Luckily, Michael was a delicate kind of guy.

“You think that’s how to run a respectable business? Conning people out of what they’re rightfully owed? Huh?”

“Now, we don’t take kindly to people insulting our organization,” said the young guy in the center. He was bald, big, decked out in leathers. Biker. “Maybe you just need to calm down, man, you’re messed up.”

Michael stepped up behind him, feigning casual, quickly gaining the attention of the two men opposite Trevor. “Who the fuck’s this guy? You said you were coming alone.”

Trevor started, spinning on his heel to face him, breath catching in his throat. Michael rubbed a hand over his mouth, taking in his friend’s disheveled appearance, the aviator sunglasses that hid his eyes. He was wearing cut-off jean shorts under the hideous jacket, reminding Michael vaguely of some 80’s beach flick, the sand and sun he was sure existed somewhere far away. He was shirtless and wiry, filthy and rough. Michael wasn’t sure if it was the sight or the smell of him that took his breath away.

They just looked at each other, for a moment. Trevor took a step forward, his hands shaking, but he stopped a foot short. 

“I don’t have fucking time for this,” said the bald guy, interrupting them. “Who are you? You a cop?”

“No, I’m not a fuckin’ cop,” said Michael, looking to him. “But even if I was, you think I’d tell you I was a cop?”

“Ain’t it illegal for a cop to say they ain’t a cop if they’re a cop?” murmured the lackey, smaller and hairier, next to his boss. “I seen that in a movie once.”

“Michael?” said Trevor, awestruck.

“Michael? Who the fuck is Michael?” 

“A concerned citizen,” Michael answered, dryly. “Now, then. What seems to be the problem here, boys?”

Trevor had seemingly had all the words stolen from him. He just stood there, staring. In the absence of an answer, the biker stepped forward, saying, “This fuckin’ psycho calls us up, drags us out here to the middle of fuckin’ nowhere the second time today, said he’d come find us if we didn’t show. Says we shorted him, but we didn’t. I weighed the shit myself. Three and a half grams, bought and fucking paid for.”

He almost laughed. It wasn’t about the drugs, Trevor wouldn’t make a fuss about an amount so small. He was here for another reason, then.

“So weigh it again,” said Michael. He looked over to Trevor, who was breathing hard through gritted teeth, staring at him. “No harm in double checking, right?” 

“You doubting my integrity?” said the leader, his voice a low growl. 

“Me?” said Michael, placing a hand on his chest. “Doubt the integrity of a low-level errand boy of a mid-tier biker gang dealing _highly_ illegal drugs out of this fine fuckin’ establishment?”

“Who the fuck--” He cut himself off, motioning for his men. He eyed Trevor with a degree of caution. “Whatever, I don’t have time for this shit. We’ll fucking weigh it again.” He extended a hand towards Trevor, his fingers shaking. “Give it here.”

Trevor finally stopped staring at Michael, only to stare at the offered hand. After a moment, he laughed, looking up at the biker’s face. “What, you think I’m gonna give you _back_ the drugs you already fucking scammed me on? You think I’m some kind of joke?” 

“No, man, I’m just trying to do what your friend said to do. You think we shorted you, so we’ll weigh it again, square everything up.”

“Might be hard to weigh it, given that most of it’s currently circulating around in my bloodstream at the moment. But why don’t you cut me open, baby,” said Trevor, opening his arms out wide, baring the vulnerable center of his chest, “see what real integrity looks like.”

The biker pulled a face. “What the fuck, man? How you fuckin’ come here saying that shit, when you’ve already--”

Trevor pointed a finger at the biker, stepping in closer. To his credit, he didn’t back away in the cautious way his buddy did. Still, his eye started to twitch.

“It’s--” started Trevor, his voice deceptively calm. “It’s the _principle_ of it.”

The biker’s eyes dipped down to the gun in Trevor’s hand. It was then that Michael stepped between them, motioning towards Trevor to get him to back down, before turning to the biker. He could still feel Trevor breathing against the back of his neck, could smell the overwhelming, sour scent of his unwashed clothes this close.

“The way I see it, this is nothing more than a simple miscommunication,” said Michael. “Everyone can walk away with a clear conscious. No harm, no foul.”

It was tense for a moment, Trevor seemingly not backing down. Michael stood his ground, turned to give him a look, but still couldn’t see his eyes through the shades. Finally, the muscle in Trevor’s jaw stopped pulsing, and he spun on his heel, taking off in the opposite direction in a hurry.

“Ah, fuck me,” muttered Michael, not exactly wanting to turn his back on these guys. He glanced over his shoulder at the back of his rapidly disappearing friend. “T! Fuck!”

“What the hell just happened?” said the biker, looking to his guileless cohort. “What the fuck was that?”

“That,” said Michael, starting to back away in Trevor’s direction, “was me saving your ass, and you getting out of this with your ‘integrity’ intact. Consider yourselves lucky.”

“Whatever, man. Fuckin’ psychos,” said the biker, gesturing to his cohorts. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” They started to walk away, pushing and shoving at each other, worked up from the near miss.

Reasonably assured that he wasn’t about to be shot in the back, Michael jogged to catch up.

“T. Trevor, man, where the fuck are you going?”

He didn’t respond, just kept walking with that single-minded intensity. The blue started to filter out as they got further away from the skylights, the rotten ceiling lowering overhead as they entered one of the carved out halls. Moldy insulation and ceiling panels littered the ground, uneven beneath Michael’s feet.

Michael made a noise of frustration, reaching to grab a handful of that awful jacket. It felt damp under his hand as Michael manhandled him into place, forcing him to face him. “Trevor. T, hey, hey-- _stop_.”

Trevor stopped, immediately going slack in his grip, the way that Tracey did when she was pouting. Michael listened to the shaky sound of his breath, the sounds of people moving, the sounds of cars far away.

“What’s goin’ on, man, where are you--”

“Michael,” said Trevor, under his breath. He scoffed. “Jesus. You’re really fucking here, huh.”

Michael stared at him in disbelief. “You-- fuckin’ A, T.” He fisted the jacket tighter, gave him a shake. “What the fuck are you doing out here? You were just lookin’ for a fight, weren’t you?”

That seemed to rile him, as Trevor knocked the butt of the gun in his grip against Michael’s hand, forcing him to let go. “No, I was watching you be a fucking _pussy_ and let those guys walk the fuck off thinkin’ that they _fucked_ me!” He shoved that finger in his face, made Michael’s blood boil immediately. “That’s not you, man. That’s not the real Michael Townley.”

“Is that the fuckin’-- do you think I’m not _real_? Like I’m not really fuckin’ in front of you, right now? Trev?”

Silence.

The lines in Michael’s forehead deepened, and he reached forward for those stupid sunglasses. Trevor batted his hand away, and pulled them off the bridge of his nose to set them atop his head. Bleary red eyes stared back at Michael, and it was evident that he likely hadn’t slept in days, was on at least one type of substance. Michael’s distress must’ve showed on his face, because Trevor’s mouth took an ugly twist.

“The fuck is that look for.” He shook the gun in his hand, stepped in closer. “Don’t you give me that look.”

“It’s not-- I’m-- T, I don’t get why you’re getting so fucking hostile all of a sudden! You said you wanted to see me, so I drove all fuckin’ night and half a day just to have to track your ass down to this shithole and now you’re walking away like you can’t get away from me fast enough? What the fuck, man?” He sighed heavily. “Can you put the gun away already? Please?”

Trevor looked down at his hand, like he’d forgotten it was there entirely, then turned his face back up to Michael. “Don’t really have anywhere to put it. No pockets in this getup, unless you want me to try suitcasing this thing which, uh, no bueno.”

He choked out a laugh. “No shit. What the hell are you even wearing?”

A slow grin crawled across Trevor’s face, and Michael’s gaze wandered down to where Trevor parted the coat, cocking his hips to display the outfit in full. “Oh, sugar,” he sing-songed, “Thank you _so much_ for noticing!”

“Yeah, noticing that you look like a 1970’s crackwhore that robbed and murdered her pimp on her way to skip town. Nice shorts, T. The steel-toed boots really pull the whole look together.”

“You see, Michael, while you’ve been off playing house, I’ve had to come up with another way to make a little cash on the side. As an innovator in the respectable field of criminal enterprise, in these trying times, we’ve had to downsize! So I’ve decided for my newest economically thrifty business venture to be a pimp, and to also be,” he said, with a dramatic gesture towards the revealing shorts, “my own ho.”

Michael raised a hand to his mouth, coughed to cover the snort of laughter that came out. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, cowboy,” said Trevor, stepping in closer, reaching for the collar of Michael’s jacket. He raised a suggestive eyebrow. “You got twenty bucks? Show ya a good time.”

He grabbed Trevor’s hand at his collar, the skin cracked and dry beneath his fingers. He held on. “And shake me down afterwards, right?” 

“You betcha, Mikey,” said Trevor, looking at him, grinning, eyes wild, “But it’ll be the best two minutes of your sad little life.”

“Two minutes? T, you fuckin’ wound me.”

“Do a whole lot more than _wound_ you.” Trevor’s eyes flicked down to his mouth, and he drew in a deep inhale, nostrils flaring. “Christ, I missed your ugly mug.”

The tension seemed to slip away, Michael softening around the shoulders. “I missed you too, Trev.”

His gaze dropped. “And here I didn’t think you were gonna show.”

“Yeah, well, here I fuckin’ am. In the flesh.” He gently disentangled Trevor’s fingers from his jacket, let their hands drop, separated. “So can we get out of here? As fun as this little field trip has been, I could use a fuckin’ drink that isn’t served out of a paper bag right about now.”

Michael started walking, looking back to Trevor, expecting him to follow. Finally, Trevor sniffed, stepped in close, swinging an arm around his bulky shoulders.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go. Bring you back to my room, you can be my gentleman caller. Still got that twenty? Make it fifty and I’ll let you play with my boy hole.”

He cringed at the mental image, but grabbed Trevor’s hand where it hung around his shoulder, pulled him in tight. “Make it a hundred for you to never speak to me again.”

“Gonna take a whole lot more than cash to _ever_ make that happen, Mike.”

* * *

They talked about nothing for the ride back, joking and jabbing at each other in that way that seemed so natural. Mostly Trevor did the talking, Michael laughing, smoking cigarettes and desperately trying not to breathe through his nose. He could barely stand to look at Trevor, disheveled as he was, without the weird sinking feeling in his gut.

The woman in room 205 was long gone by the time Trevor was unlocking the door with buzzing hands. “Here we are, the current Casa de Philips. Don’t mind the mess, I would’ve cleaned up if I’d known company was coming.”

‘Mess’ was a bit of an understatement. Michael carefully schooled his expression as his eyes wandered, taking in the mass amounts of drug paraphernalia littered on the one of the double beds, the mysterious brown stains in the sheets that had probably been white at some point in their lifetime. The other bed remained mostly untouched, like it had been waiting for him. 

There was broken glass on the floor, a lamp had been knocked over and cast strange shadows on the wall that moved as Trevor breezed by. Bloody handprints on the walls. 

“Something tells me you ain’t getting the security deposit back,” he breathed, setting the case of beer down on the table near the door. His bag went on the bed. He almost didn’t want to touch anything if he could help it. “Jesus, T. How can you live like this?”

Trevor tossed him a look as he collected needles off the bed. “Ah, yes. I think we hit a new record, M. Only took, what, less than an hour for your fucking judgmental bullshit to start?”

“I think I got a right to judge on account of the circumstances of you calling me out here.”

“Will you just fucking relax? You’re here, aren’t you? I don’t need one of your fucking lectures, Mikey, can’t we just _enjoy_ our time spent together?”

“Hard to ‘enjoy’ anything when every one of my fuckin’ senses are busy gettin’ raped by the overwhelming stench wafting off of that godawful jacket.” 

Eyes narrowing, Trevor sniffed sharply. After a moment of rocking from foot to foot, he started shouldering off the mangy fur jacket, dropping it unceremoniously onto the floor, kicking it under the bed. Michael desperately wanted to burn it, but he doubted even that would erase the lingering putrid scent.

“There. Happy?” 

‘Happy’ was more of a concept in Michael’s mind than anything that he’d experienced first-hand, but this, he imagined, was about as far into the next fucking stratosphere away from ‘happy’ as it could get. He could barely stand to look at Trevor, at the visible ribs, bruises, the open sores on his neck and arms. He watched Trevor scratch absently at one on his neck, watched him thumb away the blood as he turned to deposit baggies on the end table.

“I’d be happier if you took a shower, actually,” said Michael, gingerly taking a few steps into the room. He propped himself up against the TV stand, which seemed safe. “As much as I love basking in the aura of the various biohazards you’ve got goin’ on here.”

Trevor sneered. “Again with the judgment, M. You got a problem with my lifestyle?”

“Looks like _you’ve_ got a _problem_ with your lifestyle, Trevor,” he barked, temper starting to flare. 

Trevor looked at him, eyes full of mirth. Michael deflated somewhat, not sure how to get through to him. For all the guy had done to get him out this far, Trevor just seemed to keep pushing him away. 

“I’m just-- look, T, you look like shit. You gotta start taking care of yourself.”

“Oh, brother, you’re one to talk,” said Trevor, rounding back towards him. Michael stood up as he approached, didn’t back down when Trevor shoved a finger in his face. “You looked in a mirror lately, pal? How’s the ole cholesterol these days?”

He recognized it as a deflection tactic, because Trevor never wanted to get into the specifics of his habits. Confronting demons wasn’t exactly something either of them were good at. Michael swallowed, struggled to contain himself, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“This isn’t about me, right now. This is about you.”

“Oh, Jesus, a fuckin’ miracle!” Trevor flourished with his hands. “Michael Townley cares about something other than himself!” 

Michael grit his teeth. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Here to bitch at me like a nagging housewife.” 

“The fuck? Why do you have to say shit like that-- because I ask you to take a fucking shower?”

“ _No_ , Michael,” said Trevor, getting in his face close enough that their noses were almost touching, that he almost gagged from the smell of his breath, “because you hate your life, and trying to fucking tell me what I should be doing with mine makes you feel better about how much you hate your fucking life!”

It was like a sheet of ice was dropped over him, and Michael’s face flattened out, fury settling in. 

“Take a fucking shower, T.”

Trevor chuckled. “Fuck you.”

“Take a _fucking shower_ , T,” he repeated, voice growing in volume.

“Fuck you, Michael!”

Michael sighed. Cracked his neck. “You wanna do this the hard way, then?”

“That would imply any iota of your fat, flabby body can get anything near resembling _hard_.”

There was half a second before Michael’s hands moved before his brain could kick in, and he flat out tackled Trevor, grappling him around the shoulders before the other man could react. Using the bulk of his weight to maneuver him, Michael dug his heels in, even as Trevor thrashed in his hold, trying to grab anything he could hold onto to stop the inevitable trip into the bathroom.

“Fuck you, Michael! Fuck you! Argh-- _fuck!”_

Trevor managed to hook a hand into the door jamb, hanging on for dear life as Michael tried to shove him through. He caught an elbow in the mouth and released a shout, the brief spike of pain flaring his adrenaline enough to overpower Trevor and force him into the dingy shower stall. 

“Would you fucking relax! T, cut it--” Michael blocked a wild swing, pinning the hand to the ceramic tiles of the wall, swerving his head back when Trevor tried to nail him with his forehead. He was sweating with the effort of trying to contain him, all that rage and meth-induced strength. Despite it all, it felt right to have Trevor so close to him again, to feel that raw anger, trying to contain it with the finesse of a man suppressing a nuclear blast with his bare hands.

He was impossible to control. He kept fighting like a cornered animal, teeth gnashing, until Michael’s hand shot forward, gripping the front of his throat. Trevor released a broken noise, and Michael squeezed down, knocked him back against the tile, the sound of his skull colliding with the wall deafening in the tiny room.

A booted foot kicked at his knees, but Michael didn’t soften his grip, teeth grit as he increased the pressure on Trevor’s trachea. He listened to him croak as he strained to breathe, Trevor arcing the delicate line of his throat to try to pull more air, slapping at his hands, trying to pry them off. It wasn’t enough to break his hold. Almost like he wanted this. They both wanted it. Michael locked his other arm around Trevor’s chest, and held him down. 

Trevor stopped fighting. His eyes started to roll back into his head.

Michael panted. Gradually, when he was sure Trevor wasn’t going to push him, he released the pressure of his fingers, one by one. He kept his hand around Trevor’s neck, felt his Adam’s apple bob against his palm as he swallowed, felt the steady beat of his pulse. Still breathing, then.

His chin dropped to his chest, and Michael closed his eyes, tried to get himself under control. Then, he felt Trevor start to shake, until the other man was bubbling over with laughter, and Michael couldn’t help but start, until they were both cackling like they’d completely lost it, holding one another completely dry and clothed in the shower stall.

“Fuck, Mikey,” said Trevor, his voice raspy, “you always did have a way with words, didn’t ya?”

“Yeah, fuck you too, Trevor,” said Michael, his head still bowed. He wiped tears of laughter from his eyes with the back of his hand, but couldn’t get them to stop, for some reason. His nose started to run, and he sniffed. He clenched his eyes shut. “I am so fucking upset with you right now.”

“Must be strange for you-- _feeling_ something, for once.”

Michael’s forehead touched against Trevor’s shoulder as he leaned forward. He jerked away from the sensation of bare skin against his own, but he didn’t release his hold. 

He looked up, taking in Trevor’s smug expression. He started to painstakingly peel back the layers, to see through that anger and find the man who’d broken every bone in his body twice-over trying to scale his reinforced walls. He knew what this was, he always did, that Trevor would carefully lay bait for him that he would always, always take. 

His fingers uncurled, releasing the grip he had on his throat. Palm flattening out, Michael let his hand slip lower to touch the bare skin of his chest. Trevor made a low sound in response, looking down at every part where their bodies were connected, everywhere they weren’t, the impossible distance between them far too treacherous to ever cross.

“Come on, man,” said Michael, immediately clearing his throat, looking away. “Just clean up a little, Trev. I can’t take looking at you like this.”

“That the real reason you never come around anymore? Can’t stand the sight of me, huh.”

Michael started. “Do you always have to--”

There was a sudden hiss of the shower kicking in, before he was blasted in the face with cold water from the showerhead. Michael sputtered for a moment, trying to jerk away, but Trevor held on tight with the hand that wasn’t busy covertly adjusting the taps. “Jesus Christ!”

“How ‘bout it, Mikey. You wash my back, I wash yours?” 

Michael couldn’t help the wry smile pulling at the side of his mouth, water dripping off the edge of his nose. He’d probably wanted this exact scenario, had probably counted on it, and he'd just played right into his hands. Maybe they did know each other too well. “That’s the only way this is gonna go down, huh? You gonna behave?”

“Just be careful not to drop the soap, sugar.”

His clothes were already soaked. His boots, too. He scowled up at Trevor, who slid his hands down his body between them, reaching for the button of his shorts. The were quickly discarded with a wet slap to the linoleum, along with underwear, dropped unceremoniously to where the water was pooling around the drain. He kicked it out of the stall, standing naked except for his boots, that wild look in his eyes that was so familiar. He looked ridiculous. He looked like a reason for weakness, and when he reached for Michael’s jacket, all the fight went out of him the second Trevor’s fingertips grazed the zipper.

Somehow, when he was finally wet and naked in front of Trevor he felt less threatened-- things had always been easier between them when broken down to raw physicality. A shower wasn’t even a half bad idea, given that he’d been festering in his own ass sweat from the long car ride. They weren’t small men, uncomfortably crammed into the narrow single-stall shower unit, but it was almost like old times again, like half-stepping into a memory that had gone blurrier around the edges as the years continued to pass. They used to do this all the time, when the lack of hot water made for a convenient excuse to get closer, when they’d watched the murky blood circle the drain after a job had gotten a little too hot.

Trevor seemed somewhat unusually subdued, now, used the tiny bottles of shampoo and soap when prompted without a word edgewise. He looked like a drowned rat, his hair too long, his beard tangled, the rest of him hard edges and rough skin. Still, it was familiar having Trevor’s bony elbows shoved into his sides as they tried to rearrange themselves, feeling Trevor’s hands skate across his shoulders like he thought he wouldn’t notice. They both looked but nobody lingered for too long. 

With Trevor’s face upturned in the spray, eyes closed, Michael’s gaze dropped lower. He licked his lips at the sight of his cock thickening out against his leg, looking away guiltily as Trevor reached down to wash himself. He was a little astonished that Trevor had been so good, kept his hands to himself like Michael had requested time and time again, that they didn’t do ‘that’ anymore even as he broke his own rules. Maybe things were really that bad between them, that Trevor wasn’t pushing that particular boundary, even with Michael toeing it as he was.

The towel he used seemed mostly clean, rough from over-bleaching. Michael wrapped it around his hips, frowned down at the bare floor before deciding to put on his boots before putting his bare feet on the godawful carpet. His toes squished into the insoles and he scowled, but stepped out into the room regardless, aware of Trevor’s gaze in the mirror as he let the door close behind him.

The beers he’d left on the table were warm, but he cracked one anyway before sitting heavily on the mostly undisturbed bed, setting his elbows on his knees. The lowering sun left the room orange and warm, and for a moment he could ignore the state of it. He missed it, sometimes, even, the squalor. Nobody telling him what to do. Just being free, if only for a moment.

Michael sighed, and drained most of his drink. He couldn’t stay that much longer.

“I leave you alone for five seconds and you’re already moping? Fuck, Mikey, married life really that fuckin’ bleak?”

His gaze panned over, Trevor towel-drying his unkempt hair, still entirely naked. Michael threw his head back, killed the rest of his beer. He tossed the can to the ground to make a point. “Yeah, fuck you. You should probably shave, T. It’d help take you down a few notches from ‘potential serial child rapist’ to ‘friendly neighbourhood molester.’”

“Hardy-fuckin’-har, you fat fuck.” He scratched at his beard. “I don’t have a razor.”

A comment sat on the tip of his tongue, one just a little too far, even for them. Michael managed to wrangle it in, reaching for another beer to keep his hands busy. “Check my bag. Probably got one in there you can use.”

The bed dipped behind him. He heard the duffle unzip. Michael killed the second beer in record time.

He rubbed a hand over his chin, reached for another can. Wet hair left rivulets of water running down the back of his neck, his chest. He couldn’t stay much longer.

Foam bubbled up around his fingertips as he cracked the beer, and he went to bring it to his mouth, halting only when he felt a hand against his back. Michael sucked in a breath, going still as Trevor’s forehead touched his shoulder. His arms slid around Michael’s waist, until Trevor was almost curled over him like some watchful, awful gargoyle. 

Michael didn’t move. Trevor’s fingers parted, slid up his chest sticking on damp skin, combing through his chest hair. His hands slid lower, over the curve of his gut, fingers digging into the rolls of fat on his sides that he could never seem to get rid of. He wasn’t getting any younger.

He felt a mouth press against the blade of his shoulder, before Trevor nosed the back of his neck, his hands sliding back up his chest to cup his pecs in either hand. Michael held back a noise, pressing his thumb hard against the indentation of the beer can. Nobody really touched him like this anymore, not in the way Trevor did, like he was trying to catalogue every part of him and record it in the forgotten, dog-eared notebooks of their endlessly complicated history.

Hands moved up over his shoulders, clasping at his collar before he was pulling Michael back into his hold, until his spine touched against Trevor’s chest. Michael stared at the carpet, let himself be held. Trevor’s hair tickled the sensitive skin of his nape, until his free hand raised of its own volition, curling around Trevor’s forearm. His thumb grazed the raised bumps where he’d self-injected.

Michael’s arm dropped back into his lap. Trevor reached for his beer, pulling it from his loose hold.

“It’s warm,” Michael warned, his voice startling to him in the relative silence of the room.

“No shit.” Trevor took a long pull, belching loudly when he was finished. The can went to the mercy of the floor like its brother had. “Nothin’ beats a warm, shitty beer shared with your best bud.”

He slid off the edge of the bed without another word, razor in hand, jostling Michael as he went. Michael stared at the floor. As soon as Trevor disappeared into the bathroom, Michael laid back, pressing down the lines in his forehead with the flat of his thumb. He shut his eyes, tried not to doze off too much. It had been a long drive.

Still, as soon as he started to relax, his mind started to wander. He knew it was going to be hell to deal with Amanda when he got back, she was going to be pissed. He’d probably spend the next few weeks in the doghouse trying to make it up to her. Still, the job, that was going to bring in a chunk of change. Maybe not so bad. He just had to keep Trevor busy and occupied. Keep him away from the drugs, keep him stable, keep him away, keep him close. 

He opened his eyes, releasing a deep, heavy sigh. Then, finally, he started moving, reaching for his bag in search of clothes.

Once dressed, he stood, the remainder of the case of beer in hand. He glanced around the room for an ice-bucket, he could stay for a little longer, have a few more drinks. A quick search of the room, opening and closing some of the cupboards in the unit that housed the TV led to the surprising discovery of a yellowing mini-fridge. He leaned down to open the door and immediately closed it again. 

“Hey, T?”

“Yeah?” came his voice, from the bathroom.

“Could you c’mere a minute.”

Trevor padded out of the bathroom, face half-shaved. “What? Miss me already?”

“I just got teeny, tiny little question to ask you.”

“Shoot, Mikey,” said Trevor, looking at him in confusion. “Ask away, I’m an open book.”

“Okay, alright.” He gestured to the mini-fridge. “What the fuck is that?”

Trevor hummed. “That would be a teeny, tiny little refrigerator.”

Michael ripped open the door. “No, _what the fuck_ is _that_!?”

Trevor crouched down to peer inside the mini-fridge. “Oh. Forgot I still had that.” He chuckled. “My bad.”

“You _forgot_ you had a _human hand_ stored in your fucking murder motel fridge? Jesus Christ, T, you’re already walking probable cause! Oh, God, what the fuck, Trevor! You didn’t fucking do it here did you!?”

It clicked, then. The news reports. Married man missing, news at eleven. The various body parts found strewn along the highway, like a little trail of candy leading right to one Trevor Philips. And he’d walked right fucking into it.

Michael put his head in his hands, the beers long forgotten, left to the mercy of the dirty carpet. “Oh, God, Trev, what the fuck, man.”

“Hey, you never know when you could use another hand lying around, am I right?”

“Trevor.”

“Never know when it might come in handy.”

“ _Trevor_.”

“Come on, M, I really softballed that one at ya. Laugh! It’s funny!”

“ _Nothing about this is funny_!” Michael shouted.

“With your shit sense of humor, sure.”

Michael turned on him. “We need to get rid of it.” 

“Trust me, Mikey, your funnybone’s already long dead and buried.”

“ _The hand_ , T! Get rid of the fuckin’ hand!”

“Well, it _was_ on my to-do list.”

“I can’t fucking believe you. Are you--” He stepped into Trevor’s personal space, dropping his voice to a low, vehement hiss. “Do you understand what a colossal fucking risk I took by coming here in the first place? And now you’ve gone and made me a fucking unwitting accessory for what I can only hope is limited to _just_ first-degree murder, and this is a fucking _joke_ to you!?”

“Mm, no, it’s not.”

“It’s not a joke?”

“No, not limited to _just_ first-degree murder.”

Michael drew in a very deep breath. 

“I want-- I want you to finish shaving, and I want you to get dressed in _normal people_ clothing,” he started, his voice icy as he grappled for control of his composure. “I’m gonna buy some supplies so that we can--”

“Burn the building down?”

“No, you fuckin’ dick, so we can scourge every shred of our DNA from this godawful place before we skip town.”

He almost jumped out of his skin when Trevor slapped him roughly on the back. “Yes! Mike and Trevor, together again, back on the road at last!”

Michael’s hand shot out to grab hold of Trevor’s wrist, his grip bruising. “We are not _together_ , Trevor.” 

Just like that, all the humor drained from Trevor’s face. 

“We’re gonna get rid of the hand,” Michael intoned, slowly, “and then we’re gonna part ways, and lay low until the next job. Let all this blow over. Got it?”

Trevor’s face twitched. He jerked his arm out of Michael’s hold, staring him down. “You sure love to take the moral high ground, don’t you?”

Michael rolled his eyes, turning to look for his keys, his wallet. He couldn’t look at Trevor right now. “Yeah, and you sure love to keep human body parts laying around for only God knows what terrifying purpose, you fuckin’ psycho!” He kicked the edge of the table a few times for good measure. “Fuck! Fuckin’ A!”

“Michael, calm down,” Trevor deadpanned, behind him. “You’re overreacting.”

“Oh yeah? Oh fuckin’ yeah?” Michael whirled around, keys fisted in his hand, getting up in Trevor’s face. “I’d say I’m fuckin’ _under_ reacting right now!”

Trevor snorted. “Like you’ve never killed before.”

“Yeah, but I don’t stash the incriminating evidence next to the complimentary fuckin’ beverages!”

“There were complimentary beverages in there? Shit, I didn’t even see ‘em-- classier joint than I thought.”

This stupid smile started at the corner of Michael’s lips. It was kind of silly, the whole situation, body parts notwithstanding. Trevor was still completely naked, dick out, beard half-shaved, and one day it’d be a funny story that he’d never be able to tell anyone, ever. 

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, made a frustrated noise. It wasn’t fucking funny. “Look, will you just-- please, get dressed.”

“Can do, Mikey.”

Michael nodded. “I’m gonna go.”

Trevor looked at him, his eyes going tight around the corners. “You’re coming back, though, right?”

Michael stepped back towards the door, and reached for the handle. He sighed. “Yeah, I’ll be back. Fuck me, I’ll be back.” For some fucking crazy reason, he always came back. He pointed a finger at Trevor. “Normal people clothes, T.”

“Yes, Michael, oh poster boy of all things normal.”

He shut the door behind him with a slam, swearing under his breath as he careened towards the stairwell. The woman from next door watched him go, smoking in the sunlight.

“Found your friend, I see,” she called out after him.

Michael scoffed, and kept walking, slamming his hand against the wall as he went. “Yeah, hey, now if only I could figure out how the fuck to get rid of him.”

She chuckled, stubbing the butt of her cigarette down into nothing against the rail.


	2. THE POINTER FINGER

“--had been missing for under twenty-four hours. The initial discovery of a lower limb was found on the side of the highway early in the morning, followed by a second discovery of an upper limb two miles from the first crime scene. The victim has been identified as Harvey Mills, a thirty-two year old accountant, survived by his wife Nicola, who is offering a reward for any information related to the disappearance and death of her late husband. The economy these days, things’ll really cost you an arm and a leg, am I right? No? Anyway, police have begun to--”

“Do we have to listen to the news?” Trevor groaned, slouched in the passenger seat. He reached forward for the dial. “News is fuckin’ depressing.”

Michael slapped his hand away. “Fuck off. I’m trying to find out how much they know.”

“Would you fuckin’ relax? I didn’t leave nothing that’ll point ‘em to me. I’m a professional, Michael.”

His hands went tight around the wheel, knuckles cracked and dry from the bleach. “You _need_ a professional.”

He felt Trevor staring at him. Michael didn’t look, just busied his hands fumbling around in the driver console for his cigarettes. He’d already powered through most of the pack, stressed and barely awake. He hadn’t slept for days, was running on empty before this entire debacle had even begun.

Trevor grunted, reaching forward to knock his hand out of the way, passing him the carton instead. “Here, idiot. Like watching a fat greedy raccoon root around in the fuckin’ trash, I swear.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Michael said, flatly, pulling one from the pack.

He lit it with the cigarette lighter on the dash, cracked the window so he didn’t have to hear Trevor bitch. When the first taste of tobacco hit his lips, he finally hazarded a glance over to the passenger seat.

Trevor looked somewhat less awful. He seemed pissed off, one knee bouncing up against the dash, leaning against the door. Michael pulled a face as he realized for the first time that Trevor had ‘borrowed’ the shirt he’d taken off earlier, that it was still a little bit damp from the ill-advised foray into the shower fully clothed. The track marks were covered up, and he seemed to be in the early stages of coming down but it was a small improvement, at least.

“Take a picture, Mikey, it’ll last longer,” Trevor said, not even looking at him. “Not that you want it to.”

He overcorrected the wheel where they'd veered off the road a little, caught up in looking too long. Michael sighed out smoke, wriggling in his seat, his head bumping the headrest. The sun was setting in the distance, and they had miles of road ahead of them. It was gonna be a long night.

The news segued to the weather report. Michael reached forward, and flipped the radio dial to some soft-rock station. Trevor snorted. “Not sure if the dad rock is more or less depressing. God, M, what the fuck happened to you?” 

“ _Trevor_. Stop. Just-- stop.” He took another drag from his smoke. “I don’t have the fucking patience for your shit right now.”

“So, what, we sit in fuckin’ silence until you ditch me on the fucking roadside? Go back to your little house in the suburbs to fuck your wife, ignore your kids, pretend I don’t exist? Is that it?”

“That ain’t what I fuckin’ said!” he roared back, patience shot entirely.

Michael stared hard at the road. Trevor looked away. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them.

He couldn't help it. He thumbed the skin under his eye, and exhaled noisily, his hands heavy on the wheel. “So... why’d you do it?”

Trevor turned to him. “Hm?”

“Why’d you take him out?” His hand shook as he brought the cigarette to his mouth. “Why’d you kill him.”

Trevor scoffed. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You can’t stop thinking about it, can’t you?” His voice lowered. “Fantasizing about it. Like you think I don’t see that look in your eyes.”

“Does that make you feel better about the evil shit you do, T? If you pretend that everyone else around you is just as fucked up as you are?”

“I’m not the one ‘pretending’, sugar. I already know what kind of man I am,” he said, leaning forward into Michael’s space, “and I know _exactly_ who you are, deep down in the darkest, shittiest corners of your shrivelled little heart. I know the real you.”

He didn’t say anything. Michael tapped a finger against the wheel. He put his foot heavier down on the gas, picked up speed on the lonely stretch of highway.

The seat squeaked as Trevor sat back. He scratched at a stain on his pant leg, cleared his throat.

“ _Well_ \-- he pissed me off,” Trevor said, as Michael tossed his cigarette butt out the window. He immediately went for another, a morbid grin crawling across his face.

“Oh, he pissed you off! Sounds like a reasonable cause for death and dismemberment.”

Trevor shrugged. “You asked.”

“So, what? He insult your accent? Mom joke? Look at you funny? Tell me.”

“Mm, if there’s one thing I can’t stand in this fucking world, Mikey, it’s a hypocrite. Scum of the fucking earth, hypocrites.”

“Uh-huh. How’s that?”

“Look, what kind of guy hangs around a shady fucking truck stop _obviously_ looking to get his cock sucked, and I offer the aforementioned cock sucking and complimentary hit on the pipe, because I’m such a generous kind of guy, and then he has the balls to call _me_ a fucking cocksucker. After I sucked his fucking cock! Disrespecting me-- what kind of fuckin’ cocksucker would do a thing like that?”

Michael bristled at the image. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard about how Trevor did _things_ with other guys, but it always made his stomach twist for some reason. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, flicked his blinker to pass another car driving slow in the right lane, trying to focus on driving.

“Sounds like a hypocrite to me.”

“You’d know, eh.”

“Come on, man, don’t start that shit again.”

“Anyway,” said Trevor, waving a hand in dismissal at Michael’s skeptical look, “Long story short, the lady doth protest too much, so I brained him against the bathroom sink until he protest no more-eth.” 

The hair on the back of his neck rose. “Jesus, T.”

“A wee bit messy, I’ll admit. Not my finest work.” Trevor grinned, all teeth. “Satisfying, though.”

“So, what, then you chopped him up and left parts of him laying around as, what, kitschy roadside attractions? Why not just ditch the body at the bottom of a lake, burn it or something?”

He didn’t answer, for a moment. The song on the radio switched, the lights on the highway dimming as they passed through another town. 

Then, Trevor shrugged. “Y’know. Just felt like it.”

“You _felt_ like it? Chopping a guy up? You felt like it. Seriously?”

“Don’t give me that, don’t you _dare_ feed me that bullshit. You can’t tell me you’ve never done anything just because you wanted to, Mikey. You can’t lie to me, much as you might lie to yourself.”

Michael’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, where he could make out the hard edge of Trevor’s face. He couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t.

“So that’s it, huh?” Michael said, his voice going flat. “You think because you go around doing whatever the fuck you want, that it makes you better than everyone else?”

“I didn’t say that. Telling, though, that you’d take it that way.”

“Hey, I’ve done bad things, I’ll admit, but at least I’m not a fledgling fuckin’ serial killer.”

“But you _are_ a killer, Michael. And you hate me because you wish you were more like me.”

“Oh, yeah, I’d just love to wake up out of a meth binge festering in my own filth surrounded by a pile of dismembered bodies. Sounds like a great fuckin’ time.” He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “And I don’t.”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t hate you, man.”

He felt Trevor looking at him, felt it like a physical weight. 

“But you do envy me, Michael, don’t you? I do whatever I want, whenever I want. I’m not limited by your arbitrary moral boundaries, and I don’t have your guilty conscience.” The wind through the cracked window moved through his thin hair, his chin upturned as he looked out into the night air. “I’m free, man.”

“If that’s what you think, T, then sure. Be free. Free to hurt and kill everyone who gets in your way until there’s nobody fuckin’ left.”

“Nobody? We both know that ain’t true, Mikey." Trevor smiled, the way he used to smile at him, back when they both believed that Michael could save him from himself. "When I go down in flames, you’ll be right beside me, guns blazing-- the only place you’ve ever felt like you belonged in your entire miserable fuckin’ life.”

“Oh yeah? You think so?”

“Why else aren’t you home with your family right now?” He raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t take two guys to solve a one hand kind of problem.”

Michael opened his mouth to speak but words wouldn’t come. Instead, he rolled his eyes, tossing the end of his cigarette with some force out the window. His hands slapped back down to grip the wheel, eyes darting to a reflective exit sign off the highway. He swerved sharply without signaling, taking them off the highway, onto a dirt road.

They didn’t talk as the wheels bounced, didn’t talk as they went into the treeline, lush with yellowing leaves, made orange in the light of the dying sun. Trevor didn’t lose the smug expression, like he’d ‘won’ that little interaction. Michael did his best not to focus on it, but it just swirled around in his brain, tangling until it took a form he could only ever seem to get out with his fists.

He stopped the car in the middle of some lonely road, when it felt like it was far enough for two guys to head off into the woods with a shovel without it being too conspicuous. There weren’t any houses around, no other cars, just the two of them out in nature, alone.

Michael finally looked over, and nodded. “Ready to do this?”

“Born ready.” Trevor didn’t wait for him, popping the door open, the interior lights turning on.

They’d left the hand in the trunk, wrapped in a plastic bag. Michael stared down at it, mouth set in a grim line. He wasn’t squeamish, he'd dealt with his fair share of bodies. Still, he wasn't entirely thrilled about having to deal with another one of Trevor's mistakes. They just kept stacking up, higher and higher, until the pile was threatening to topple down on him.

“Go ahead,” said Trevor, next to him. “Take my hand, Mikey.”

Michael sighed. Heavily.

Trevor grinned, reaching past him for the lighter fluid, a flashlight, the shovel. “You used to have a sense of humor, you know.”

“Mm, actually, I traded it in for a sliver of self-awareness.”

“And _that_ might be the funniest thing I’ve heard all day!”

Michael rolled his eyes, and reached into the trunk, taking the hand gingerly into his own. 

They trudged out into the forest, Michael taking the lead with the flashlight, swearing under his breath as he tripped over branches. He felt Trevor’s presence looming behind him, casting a tall shadow, the shovel draped over his shoulder. Maybe this was how he was going to die, bludgeoned to death by his best friend out in the middle of nowhere. It would solve a few of his problems at least-- he’d finally be able to sleep.

“Here’s good,” Michael said, stopping abruptly. Trevor crashed into his back, and Michael’s hand shot out to steady him. He let go just as quickly, clearing his throat, turning to face him.

The plastic bag crinkled as he unwrapped it, and the limb itself felt cold and stiff to the touch. It didn’t smell great. The point where it had been cut wasn’t clean, the bone jagged and the meat stringy, and if he knew any better there were bite marks on it. He didn’t want to know any better. The ring finger bore a band of gold, which Michael pulled off with a bit of effort, sliding it into the pocket of his jeans. 

He tossed the hand to the ground, looking to Trevor to pass him the lighter fluid. A quick drench, a match, and it went up in flames.

His nose wrinkled. “Jesus. Fuckin’ stinks.”

“Mm, dunno, Mikey. I got a mad cravin’ for barbecue all of a sudden.”

A laugh bubbled out of him unexpectedly that transformed into a groan. Michael stumbled away from the fire to lean forward, hands on his knees as he breathed. “God, T, this is so fucked up.”

“Do you ever stop fucking whining? This barely even ranks in the top five most fucked up things we’ve done together.”

Michael stood back up, running a hand over his face. “Oh yeah, thanks Trev. Sure fuckin’ makes me feel better.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Mikey, you fucking love being miserable.”

“The only logical explanation for why the fuck I’m out here aiding and abetting your crazy ass.”

Trevor barked out a laugh, letting the shovel drop off his shoulders to land with a pang of metal on the ground. He dragged it a few feet away from where the hand was still in flames, and started digging. 

It didn’t take long until the hand was completely buried. Trevor dragged branches over to conceal the disturbed earth, while Michael lit a cigarette, trying to calm his nerves. It was then that the bone deep sense of exhaustion, days of driving with no sleep, started to settle in. He turned without waiting for his partner, starting to walk back to the car.

“So that’s it, then?” said Trevor, as they arrived back at the vehicle. Michael popped the trunk, started stashing the equipment. “We’re done? You just gonna leave me here on the side of the road? What if some pervert with candy comes along, tries to lure me into a white van with no windows?”

“I’d say he’s got more to worry about than you.” The trunk shut with a degree of finality, Michael jingling the keys in his hand. “I’ll drop you off somewhere. You think I’m some kind of jackass, that I’m gonna make you hit the highway at this time of night?”

“You _are_ a jackass.”

“Fuck off. Dick.” He walked around to the driver’s side door, reached for the handle. “Like I’m gonna let you loose and run the fuckin’ risk of you killing some other idiot with the balls to get on your bad side. We’ll set you up in a motel somewhere, you can lie low until we’re ready to move on the score.”

Trevor looked at him across the hood of the car. Michael was about to get inside, but stopped himself, suddenly unnerved. He scoffed, his knuckles dragging against the hood. “The fuck’s that look for, T?”

“I don’t want to go to a motel, Michael,” said Trevor, finely enunciating every word out of his mouth.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. Michael.” Trevor’s upper lip curled. “I want to go to a toy store.”

Michael’s eyebrows rose, and he laughed. “A toy store? Sure, Trev-- after that we can hook you up with that white van you like so much, you can drive around ringing a little bell, it’ll be fun for the whole family.” He motioned to the car. “Would you just get the fuck in already so we can go?”

Heat flared in his eyes, and Trevor pushed away from the car, turning a shoulder to him. Michael stared as he started to shake out his arm, and then he knew, something was wrong. 

Michael had a gun. Things would be fine. He had a gun, it was fine.

He watched carefully as Trevor started to turn back to him, shaking a pointed an accusing finger in his direction. He rounded the car, Michael turning to put his back against something as Trevor moved in closer, until he was right up in his face, his eyes red and haunted.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that? A real _fucking_ piece of work, Townley.”

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” He put his hands up, wanting to put some space between them. “Trev, calm down.”

“Don’t you fucking tell me to calm down. How can you fucking lie like that? You really think I didn’t know about it?”

“If you’d stop being so fucking cryptic and tell me what ‘it’ is, maybe I’d fucking tell you!”

“You can drop the fucking act, Michael. Fine. I get it. I’m not invited!" he yelled, his voice going rough with emotion. "The least you could do is tell me upfront instead of leading me on for this long, waiting for you to bring it up.”

Michael looked at him incredulously. “Invited?” 

“I know about the party, Michael.”

“Party? What party?”

“Tracey’s birthday party. Your daughter. My niece. That party.”

Michael blinked. “Oh, shit-- right.”

Trevor stared at him for a long moment, before he was laughing, cruel, biting laughter that made Michael’s face pull into a sour look. “Oh, fuck me, Mikey! This entire time I thought you were being a turd and not telling me, and you’re really just an even _bigger_ turd, forgetting your own kid’s fuckin’ birthday! Wow, man, that’s another level, even for you!”

“Oh, yeah? Fuck you, at least I didn’t fuckin’ commit only God knows what kind of depraved acts on a corpse because I thought I wasn't invited to a fuckin’ twelve year old’s fuckin’ birthday party!”

“She’ll be thirteen this year.”

“Eleven, twelve-- whatever. It doesn’t matter. You can’t come.”

Trevor’s eyes flashed. “No?”

Michael knew that look. He needed to do damage control-- fast. He reached for Trevor's arm, but he pulled away, like he couldn't stand Michael touching him. “Look, man, we have a job in a couple days. I don’t want to attract any attention, us two hanging around together any longer than we have to.” He exhaled noisily. “I already went out of my way to come here and help you handle this, and-- Mandy, you know what she thinks about you, T.”

“ _God_ , how deep is her fist in your pussy, Michael? You gonna let her tell you who you’re _allowed_ to bring into your own home?”

“It ain’t like that.”

“You’re the one who pays the fucking bills, Michael, puts _food_ into the mouths of your children! And yet still she thinks can ban Uncle T from the house because of a little ‘misunderstanding?’”

“I said, it _ain’t like that!_ ” Michael roared. 

Trevor’s mouth hung open, his jaw working. “Oh, I get it. You’re the one that doesn’t want me.”

“Gee, it’s a fucking mystery why I wouldn’t want a crank addicted psychopath with a rapidly increasing body count in close proximity to my fuckin’ family! We just buried a _human hand_ , T! Do you understand how fuckin’ insane that is? This _isn’t normal!”_

He didn’t say anything in return, no retorts to speak of, the silence stretching between them for a moment. Then, Trevor nodded, this manic thing, before taking a step back. 

“You know what, fine,” he said, dismissively. His face was perfectly blank, which instantly made Michael’s blood run cold. “Fine. I see how it is.”

“How what is?”

“You don’t have to pretend to care anymore, M!” His eyes flew wide open, vulnerable, his movements frantic. “I’ll be the bigger man, absolve you of all your bullshit! I thought I knew you, but the you I know is just another elaborately crafted steaming pile of _shit_ , too, ain’t it. But it’s fine. I’ll walk.”

He turned, starting off down the darkened path of the backroad, hands in his pockets. Michael stared at him, knowing that he’d turn around and be back any moment. Trevor could never walk away from him, not in the way that counted. He’d always come crawling back, like a stray dog, hungry for any scraps of affection Michael would throw his way. They’d been through this a million times before.

“Trevor,” he called after. He didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge like he’d heard him at all. “T!”

No response. Michael slammed his fist on the hood of the car, throwing himself into the driver’s seat.

He drove up behind him, keeping pace, rolling the window wide open to call out to him. “Would you just get in the fucking car?” 

“Fuck off.”

Michael grit his teeth. “Trevor, be reasonable.”

“I’m being incredibly reasonable. The most reasonable I’ve been in my entire life.”

Trevor still wouldn’t look at him. He looked murderous. If he couldn’t get him under control, there might be a body count at the end of this. The last thing he needed was Trevor going on a rampage out of some perceived rejection. The last time it had happened, he’d had to pick up and move the whole family, and he didn’t want to put the kids through that again.

“Look, man, you’re right,” Michael lied. He put on his most sheepish expression. “I was being a dick-- I didn’t mean to not invite you. I’m just a sorry excuse for a father and I fucking forgot about my own daughter’s birthday. There. You happy? I’m a piece of shit!”

There was a hitch in his step, and Trevor slowed a little. He still wouldn’t look at him.

“T, will you just-- please, _please_ get in the car? It’s my fault. I fucked up.”

Finally, he stopped. He kept his head down, looked out towards the forest, before turning to round the car. The passenger door opened and closed, the interior light blinking on, and Trevor pulled in on himself, putting as much physical space between them as he reasonably could in the small space.

“Good. Okay,” said Michael, reaching for a cigarette. “Thank you.”

“I’m not doing this for you, Michael.”

“Hey, man, that’s your prerogative. So where do you want me to--”

“I imagine Tracey would be pretty fuckin’ upset if her favorite Uncle T didn’t make it for her birthday, and I refuse to be another man in her life that lets her down.”

Michael’s nostrils flared. He hadn’t meant to imply that Trevor could come to the party. 

Trevor looked at him, eyebrows raised. “So. Usually I’m not one for the big box stores, corporate fucking shills and all, but I think I saw a OK-Mart awhile back?”

* * *

The trunk slammed shut, and Michael woke up with a snort. Draped over the steering wheel, he yawned, forcing himself upright in the seat. The floodlights from the front of the twenty-four hour department store made him wince as his eyes adjusted. He’d parked in a handicapped spot right near the front, trying to save on time, and hadn’t meant to fall asleep, only rest his eyes for awhile.

Trevor piled in next to him, smile cutting wide across his face. “Well hey there, sleepyhead. Rise and shine.”

“Fuck off,” muttered Michael, pinching the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache starting behind his eyes, and he desperately wanted a drink.

“God, you are getting old. Want me to drive? Or we can let you fall asleep at the wheel, crash us into a fuckin’ wall, decapitating both of us, instantly-- that works for me too.”

Michael turned to look at him, and before he’d even fully woken up, anger started, low and hot in the pit of his belly. Trevor seemed more animated, his jaw working as he bounced his leg hard in the passenger seat. It didn’t take long for him to put two and two together.

“Jesus, T, I was out for what, fucking ten minutes, and you snuck off to shoot up? What the fuck, man?”

“I didn’t ‘sneak off’, Michael, I don’t have anything to hide. I like to get high, fucking sue me. Jesus, when did you become my fucking parent, telling me what to do all the fucking time? You want me to call you daddy, is that it? That what gets you off? You’re a sick fuck, Townley, your kids call you daddy.”

“Oh yeah, you got me, T,” said Michael. He rolled his shoulders, tense from the awkward position he’d slipped off into. “I’m a regular sick fuck.” 

“Look at you-- I can’t stand looking at you for another minute, man, this is embarrassing. Get the fuck out.” Trevor popped the handle of the passenger side, flinging himself out of the vehicle. 

Before Michael could even properly react, the driver’s side door flew open, and Trevor’s hand hooked under his bicep to tug at him. The seatbelt dug into his gut, producing a strangled noise out of him, before Trevor leaned down over him and undid it, throwing him unceremoniously out of the car.

Michael staggered for a moment, before he’d realized that Trevor had started up the engine, was waving at him. “Come on, lard ass, move it!”

With a resigned sigh, he walked around to the passenger side. Trevor barely let him shut the door before he was peeling out of the parking lot. A tire went up on the curb as he took the corner too close, the suspension bouncing as they ripped out through the exit. “Hey, watch it! Easy, Trev.”

“Relax,” said Trevor, grinning as he put them back on the main road, dirt kicking up beneath the tires. “Get some shut-eye, Mikey. Uncle T’ll take real good care of ya.”

“Christ. That’s what I’m afraid of,” Michael muttered, slouching in the passenger seat. “You know where you’re going?”

“You think I don’t know where you live, Mike? What kind of best friend would I be?”

Michael’s mouth went dry, prickles along the back of his spine. “Ain’t that the fuckin’ question of the century.”

Despite himself, he fell asleep instantly. His neck and shoulder burned from being crammed against the passenger door, but it was kind of nice, the engine humming, Trevor mumbling along under his breath to whatever garbage he pretended was music on the radio.

It felt like old times, almost, when it was just the two of them and the road ahead with nothing to lose. Michael woke here and there, eyes following the yellow lines on the road in the night, the white of the moon leading them. It got lighter outside, gradually, passing through towns and countryside. Just them on the road. Eventually, he was just dozing, focused on the rhythmic tapping of Trevor’s fingers against the steering wheel.

He caught glimpses of his old friend through lowered lashes, his chin lowered to his chest as he pretended to sleep. He didn’t like to look, as much, these days. Looking at Trevor, seeing the physical evidence of what the lifestyle had done to him, it gave him a weird feeling he couldn’t explain. Avoiding it helped. Drinking helped more.

“Jesus, M, the way you keep starin’ at me when you think I’m not paying attention,” said Trevor, after awhile, “almost like you’re in love with me or something.”

Michael chuckled, squirming until he was upright in the seat. He ignored the weird tightness in his chest. Probably heartburn. “The only way I look at you, Trevor, is in thinly veiled disgust.”

“‘Thinly’ veiled?” 

Yawning, Michael reached for a cigarette. “Where are we, anyway?” He glanced at the clock. It was morning, still early. He’d only been out a couple of hours.

“Just left Wayfield. Still a ways to go-- but hey, I think we’ll make it just in time for the par-tay, amigo.”

He lit his smoke, nodding. Only a few more hours until the impending end of his marriage. Amanda had made it clear on numerous occasions how she felt about having Trevor around, and showing up with him at the door unannounced wasn’t exactly going to win him any brownie points. 

He half-considered calling her, but decided against it. She wouldn’t be able to overreact with a house full of kids, anyway. He could delay the inevitable a little longer.

“So what did you get, anyway?” Michael asked, burning his way through the first cigarette.

“Hm?”

“For Tracey.”

“It’s a gift, Michael. Supposed to be a surprise.”

“Oh, a surprise! How nice. I love surprises.”

“Always with the sarcasm, M-- like you even care anyway. Forgetting her fucking birthday, you prick.”

“Course I fuckin’ care, she’s my kid,” he shot back, ignoring the burn of shame. “Knowing you, you probably got her a ‘Meth Kitchen Playset’ or some shit.”

Trevor laughed. “What did _you_ get for her, Mike?”

“What did-- Amanda picks the gifts out from both of us. So whatever she got. Fuck if I know. Way more money than I’d spend on a thirteen year old.” He switched the cigarette from between his two fingers to pinching the end of it, looking down at the burning end. His voice lowered, more introspective, “At that age, I was just lucky if I didn’t get my ass kicked, let alone anyone remembering it was my fucking birthday.”

“Well aren’t you cheerful?” Trevor waved a hand in his direction. “Father of the year, right here.”

“Yeah, go fuck yourself, T,” he said, but there was a smile crawling across his lips as they settled into easy banter. 

“No, yeah, I get you, bro. You want your kids to have the shit you didn’t have growing up. I get it.”

“I’d just like ‘em to have more opportunities, you know?” His smile faded, and he blew out smoke, turning to the window where the first rays of the sun were spilling through. “Don’t want ‘em to turn out even half as fucked up as I did, anyway.”

“Eh, fucked up or not, M, you’re kinda alright. Or you used to be, anyway.”

“Used to,” he laughed.

“Yeah, man, used to.” His eyes went lighter, his lips twitching into a hint of a smile. “Although… the two of us in the car again, burnin’ the midnight oil. Reminds me of when we first started this shit.”

“Oh yeah?” Michael killed his cigarette, reached for another. 

“Yeah,” said Trevor. He looked forward to the road, but for all Michael knew, he was a million miles away. Somewhere else, another time, another place. “We used to run wild.”

Michael looked at him, his long, straggly hair and his narrow face, his knuckles tight on the wheel like he was desperately trying to hang onto something that he couldn’t quite grasp. He tilted his head, felt the memories knocking around, clearing out the cobwebs in his mind from the places he very rarely dared to go, these days.

“You remember that one time,” Michael started, his voice almost surprising himself, as he watched the smoke curl upwards from his fingertips, “right after you got outta the joint. We were waiting on that, uh-- that cargo thing from L, but we were poor as fuck, it was the end of December, and it was so fucking cold. Not enough cash for a hotel, all we had was that--”

“--piece of shit Sultan that we jacked just outta Sadieville,” Trevor finished, for him. He offered a crooked grin. “Yeah, I remember. The tranny on that thing was fucked.”

“Sure was, no thanks to you-- what the fuck did you call it? ‘Ripping a shitty?’”

“Fuck yeah, we ripped a _real_ shitty right in that one guy’s fuckin’ driveway after we B &E’d the fuck out of his house. His flower beds would never be the same again, and neither would that car.”

“Ripping a-- God, anyway, we were fuckin’ broke, trying to lay low, freezing our nuts off trying to sleep in that stupid fucking car and we musta been drunk or something because, I don’t know if it was me or you--”

“It was you.”

“--okay, then _I_ , somehow, got the bright idea to scale the fence in that fucking storage warehouse next to the field we were crashing in.”

“And then you, idiot, got your pants stuck on the barbed wire right on top just as the security guy started his patrol. Even I told you it was a bad idea.”

“Oh, yeah, Trevor Philips, voice of fuckin’ reason.”

“God, Mikey,” Trevor said, with a laugh, “there you were, dangling on the fence, your bare white ass hanging out in the fuckin’ moonlight. I’ll never forget that feckless fuckin’ look on your face as the patrol guy walked by.” 

Michael started to laugh. “Why the fuck did I go with this story? Jesus, I almost forgot about that.”

“Lucky for you, your old pal T never forgets.”

“Dunno if ‘lucky’ is the word I’d use.”

“But I got you down,” said Trevor, looking over to him, eyes light, “and we broke into that storage locker with all that real expensive furniture, remember? Started a fire with the dining set.”

“Yeah, I remember.” 

Mostly, he remembered the way Trevor looked across the smoldering pile of wood, his eyes golden and wicked in the light of the flame. They slept back to back on a plastic-covered mattress, kicking and bitching at each other for room. He’d woken up with Trevor’s arm slung around his waist, in the morning, breath warm on the back of his neck. Those early days. 

He ran a hand over his mouth, trying to banish the nostalgic look that had settled there. “Fuckin’ miracle we didn’t suffocate, burning that shit inside the lock-up.”

“Hey, at least we stayed warm all night, brother. Saved the money we had for a two-six of whiskey and that shitty diner breakfast the next morning.”

“Shitty? They made good toast.”

“It’s fucking toast, M, it ain’t that difficult to make.”

“Never stopped you from burning it just about every fuckin’ time.” He reached over to kill his cigarette, burned into a stump as he’d ignored it while caught up in conversation.

“Sorry I’m not _good enough_ for your fuckin’ bourgeois taste, Michael.”

The breath wheezed out of him in an instance. He looked up, but Trevor’s face had gone tight again, distant in the way it had before. It didn’t take much, these days, to shatter any instance of comradery between them, with so much baggage dragging behind. Couldn’t even talk about breakfast food without a fucking argument.

Michael sighed, turning his face out to the sun. “Sometimes I miss it too, Trev.”

It wasn’t enough. He recognized that. Even with the regret perforating every bone in his body, his hollow skeleton alone wasn’t strong enough to cage Trevor back in.

The car felt too small, with both of them in there. Everything they didn’t want to say filling up every space until it was suffocating. 

“Yeah, whatever, Mikey, whatever,” muttered Trevor, after a moment. He shoved a hand at Michael’s shoulder, startling him. “You just wanted to fuck that cute little waitress with the ponytail. ‘They made good toast,’ ha-ha, fuck off. Asshole.”

Michael smirked. “I _did_ fuck the waitress."

Trevor laughed. "No shit?"

"You bet your ass I did. Pulled real hard on that ponytail, too.”

“I wasn’t the only one leaving that shithole disappointed then, I guess.”

“ _Hey_.”

Trevor chuckled, then cleared his throat. “You, uh-- wanna take over the wheel again?”

“Sure, man,” he sighed. “No problem.”

They stopped for more cigarettes and a shitty fast-food breakfast in the next nowhere town. Michael’s cell phone rang while Trevor went to hit the head, but he ignored it. They were only a few hours out now, and he didn’t want to ruin his relatively good mood by having to deal with Amanda’s nagging.

He leaned up against the car, lit a smoke. It was nice, just to be by himself for a moment. To pretend that his endless list of problems didn’t exist. His eyes wandered the small parking lot, the cars idling in the drive-thru line, motorcycles parked close by the door with a group of guys in leathers standing around smoking and laughing. It was like a scene out of a movie, one of the classics from the sixties. Pure Americana.

His moment of peace ended when his cigarette was snatched out of his fingertips, Trevor waving it in his face. “You’re gonna ruin your lungs with this shit, man.”

Michael batted his hand away. “Oh yeah, you’re one to talk.”

“Me? I’m great-- could run a fuckin’ marathon. I slam my speed these days, bro, the old lungs have never been better!” Trevor flicked the smoke to the ground gratuitously, grinding it out under his boot. “Come on, cowboy, let’s get this show on the road!”

Morning commuters ran thick through the veins of the city, the traffic only beginning to disperse as they hit the open mouth of the highway. The overgrown grass had already started to turn yellow along the roads, dry and pale. Summer always died early in North Yankton.

All that remained was the long stretch of country road. It should’ve been quiet this time of day, should’ve been easy. Michael’s eyes flicked to the rear view mirror, catching on where a nondescript black van had been following a little too close for the past half hour or so. He pumped the brakes to try to get him to back off, but all it resulted in was the van coming closer, not even a foot behind them.

Trevor slid his arm behind Michael’s seat, turned back to look. “Fucker’s been riding your ass real hard, eh?”

“Yeah, and I ain’t exactly goin’ slow. Dunno why he doesn’t just pass me if he’s in that much of a fuckin’ hurry. Dick.”

“Little fuckin’ dick,” agreed Trevor. He rolled down the passenger side window, flipped the bird at the van. 

There was a brief second where it seemed like the driver was about to back off, but the engine kicked, and he roared up closer. The front bumper actually tapped the back of Michael’s car. “Jesus Christ, the fucking balls on that guy!” laughed Trevor. “Slow down, go real slow. See what he does.”

He did, bringing the car to a crawl. It was almost laughable, the only two vehicles on the road, doing a snail’s pace along the narrow stretch of double-solid highway. Finally, the van ripped out of its lane into the shoulder, nearly skimming the side of the car as it whipped past. It slowed immediately, forcing Michael to brake, as Trevor sat bolt upright in his seat, hands on the dash.

“I recognize that logo on the door. Angels of Death-- same gang as those jumped up motherfuckers in Valley City.”

“Wonder if they saw my car in the lot. Might’ve put out feelers for us in the state thanks to your little stunt.”

Trevor curled his hands into his fists, nostrils flaring. “Fuck! I fuckin’ hate fuckin’ bikers. Infecting this country like parasites, can’t even sell drugs right, _Jesus_! They think they can fuck with us?”

Michael put his foot down on the gas a little, smirking. Despite his better judgment, it’d feel good to get out a little pent up stress. “Wanna fuck back?”

“Is that even a question? Give ‘er shit, M!”

He gunned the engine, hands gripping the wheel as he gained on the van, close enough that there were mere inches between the vehicles. Trevor whooped in the passenger seat, opening the glovebox for his piece, as Michael swerved onto the oncoming lane. He pushed the car harder until they were neck and neck with the van, making eye contact with the biker in the driver’s seat.

The second their eyes met, the biker cranked the wheel, throwing the flank of the van straight at them. Michael swerved away, Trevor crashing into his side from the momentum, before he was throwing the car right back, trying to force the van off the road.

Swerving onto the shoulder, dirt kicking up, the van picked up speed. Michael didn’t give him any ground, nudging the back corner with his bumper, trying to force him to spin out. 

Trevor leaned out the passenger side window, 9mm in hand. He took a few pot shots at the tires, bullets pinging sharply off the metal of the wheel wells. The van skidded abruptly, the driver likely startled by the gunfire, before it raked hard onto the next turnoff, barrelling down the dirt road.

“Go!”

“I’m fuckin’ going!”

They gained on him quickly, chewing up the road with Michael’s lead foot, the bumper kissing the back of the van once, twice. He hammered down until they were at pace again, Trevor taking aim, firing at the tires and missing again.

“T, you can’t fucking shoot for shit!”

“Maybe if you’d fucking learn to drive!”

Michael made a rough noise, rolling down his window. “Take the wheel, then, asshole!”

Trevor shot his arm across, his elbow grazing Michael’s chest as he freed his own gun from his belt. He hung out the driver’s side window, foot on the gas, with Trevor keeping the vehicle on track. The van was maybe a few yards away, running fast ahead of them, but when Michael took aim, his bullet rang true. The back left tire burst in a hot burst of rubber, the van wildly veering before it spun out uselessly into the ditch.

Blood thundering in his ears, Michael retook the wheel, slowing them to a stop a few feet away. He’d barely set it into park before Trevor was kicking the door open, stalking towards the vehicle with the intensity of a starved lion staring down a slab of fresh meat.

Michael tumbled out of the car just as Trevor threw the van door open, reaching inside to grab a handful of the biker’s vest, ripping him out of his seat. “Get the fuck out, you fuckin’ piece of shit!”

“What the fuck, man!” shouted the biker, kicking back at him. “Get off me you fuckin’ psycho! Fuck you!”

The sound of Trevor’s fist impacting the guy’s nose was audible, blood gushing out from his caved-in nostrils. Trevor didn’t stop hitting. The biker threw a loose swing in return, disoriented, but Michael had seen his old friend take on bigger, meaner guys without breaking a sweat, and this was no different. He dented the side of the van with the front of the biker’s skull, broke a side-mirror with his cheek, glass raining down into the dirt.

Michael kept his distance, watching as Trevor got a grip on the guy’s throat, hooking a leg behind his knee to force him back to the dirt. He kept a boot on his sternum, kicking him a few times, forcing a groan out of him as he stayed down.

“Where are your friends?” Michael asked, mildly. Bikers weren’t known to travel alone.

Trevor kept his boot on the biker’s chest, too strong to be pushed away by the hands scrabbling at his ankle. He aimed his gun down at the man’s head, and all fighting stopped, his hands flat against the dirt. He certainly looked the part of the new recruit-- younger than they were, bearing only a few tattoos. The leather on his vest was still new, his eyes wide with fear. “Jesus Christ! Don’t kill me!” 

“Why’re you alone?” Michael asked, again.

“T-they fucking ditched me, man!” he said, voice wet and haggard from the abuse his face had taken. “I’m a prospect, man, not a full-patch, they were just fucking with me! Some-- some hazing shit or something! One of the guys took my bike and left me with that shitty van, I was just pissed off, acting dumb! I didn’t mean nothin’!”

“Aww, a baby biker!” said Trevor, cheerfully. “Weaned from the hairy teat a little too early, methinks.”

“So why’d you try to run us off, then, huh?” 

“Some of the guys back in VC said there was these two crazy dudes driving a car your make and model, said the crew should keep an eye out and you-- you were driving like an asshole, man!”

Trevor looked over at him, grinning. “See, M, I said you were a shitty driver.”

“Shut up.” They should’ve been more discreet. Fucking Trevor. He crouched down next to the biker, gun dangling loosely from his fingers. “What’s your name?”

“M-my name? It’s Jesse, why-- what the fuck do you want?”

“We’ll be asking the questions, thanks,” said Michael. He couldn’t deny that it felt good to fuck with the kid, to see the fear and confusion in his eyes. “Anything in the van? And be honest-- you want to be on my good side.”

“Nothing,” he answered. “We moved the cargo last night, there’s nothing.”

“Oh yeah? How forthcoming of you,” said Michael. He stood up, flicking the safety on his handgun, keeping it steady over Jesse’s head. “T, go take a look. Corroborate our new friend’s story.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Trevor answered with a mock salute. He eased his boot off the guy’s chest, kept his gun pointed at him as he paced over to the van. The back doors opened with a flourish, Trevor’s head disappearing inside. Michael kept his eyes on the biker, knew the guy would be looking for an exit if he had any sense at all. “Seems our little buddy was being exceptionally forthright, after all! Jack shit in here worth taking.”

“See! I’m not trying to fuck you guys, I swear. Just let me go, I won’t tell nobody I saw you two! I was being an idiot, it’s my fault! It’s all my fault!”

Trevor slammed the van doors shut, stalked around to the front seat. He waved a wallet, before stepping back out to the dirt. “Jesse, buddy, not even twenty bucks your name? Shit’s pretty grim in gangland these days, eh? Turns out sucking sweaty biker cock ain’t that lucrative a career, far as organized crime goes.”

“Jesus,” Michael muttered, rolling his eyes. “He’s nobody, T, quit runnin’ your mouth and hurry the fuck up. We got places to be.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Trevor said, with a sniff. He gestured with his gun. “Take him out.”

Michael stared at him. “You want me to kill him?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ you kill him? He’s seen our faces, man, your car-- and you just said, he’s nobody.”

“God, please don’t kill me!” pleaded Jesse, trying to sit up. Michael kicked him back down again. “I won’t say shit, I swear! I was straight with you about the van, right? Just-- trust me!”

“Oh, trust you! Yeah, you’ll be the first one I call the next time I need someone to babysit my kids. Shut the fuck up.” 

Michael wiped a hand over his mouth, mulling it over. He hardly had a problem with killing. If there was something or someone in his way, he would deal with it. On the one hand, with Trevor’s recent activities and the publicity around it, the job only a week out-- they didn’t need the extra heat of another dead body lying around. On the other hand, a biker gang that had his number, that wasn’t exactly a good thing.

Still. It was just some stupid kid. Wrong place, wrong time. He didn’t even look that old, maybe early twenties. Maybe had a family worried about him.

“God, M, are you gonna stand there fucking hand-wringing like an old woman? Just do it already.” 

He shook his head, dismissive. “You want him dead so bad, you fuckin’ do it.”

“No! Please don’t--”

Trevor kicked him hard in the ribs, producing a groan. “Nobody asked you.” He squared on Michael, shoulders back, standing tall. “Is that what you think? That I’m just your fucking attack dog, that I kill on command for you?”

“I didn’t say that. I just said, you want him dead, you do it.”

“You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you? Just because of that bleeding heart of yours, because you suddenly grew a fucking conscience to try to rationalize the bad things you do, M?” He reached across Jesse’s prostrated form to jab a finger in Michael’s chest. “You’re going soft.”

“Hm, or maybe, and here’s a thought,” said Michael, barely holding his grip on his temper, his voice steadily rising in volume, “I exercise a little restraint and don’t fuckin’ kill for fun!”

“For fun? You think-- M, this guy has _seen_ your face! Nothing ‘fun’ about this.”

“I didn’t see shit! I didn’t see anything, I--”

Another kick from Trevor, this time to the head, knocking him out instantly. They stood over him on either side, as if Jesse’s limp body were some kind of cruel peace treaty being signed between them.

Michael shifted from foot to foot. He should’ve never come out here. Fuck the job. Fuck the money. He should’ve just left Trevor to blow his brains out or OD, should’ve just stayed home and fell into the open arms of liquor and blissful ignorance.

Trevor’s lip curled as he looked only at Michael. “Kill him. Do it.”

“This is what you wanted the entire time, isn’t it? To drag my ass out here and put me up to this so that you could justify to yourself that all _your_ evil shit is normal, right?” His chin jutted out, and he looked away from Trevor’s unbalanced stare. “You’re fucked up, T.”

“And you’re right here next to me, friend! You know what they say, Mikey, that a man is known by the company he keeps! You’re just as _fucked up_ as I am, you’re just too afraid to admit it to yourself. You love this. You love every fucking second you spend with me, don’t you fucking lie, Michael.”

“Oh, yeah! Rescuing you from a drug deal gone bad! Cleaning you up after a meth binge! Burying a severed hand in the woods! All memories I’ll cherish until the bitter end.”

Trevor stared at him like he was looking right through him. His free hand curled into a fist at his side, knuckles white around the gun in the other, and Michael started to brace himself, preparing for a physical retaliation. They’d tussled in the past, it was just natural for men to fight things out, but things were different, now. 

“You know what,” said Trevor, “you want to be a sarcastic piece of shit and act all high and mighty, fine. Take the high fuckin’ road, Mikey. You really think he ain’t gonna turn around and run straight back to his biker buddies and track you down? That what you really want, M, a biker gang showing up at your door while you’re not home?” Trevor tilted his head, looked him over, lip curling. “You know, I bet they’d just love to meet Amanda. Tracey, too.”

He saw red in an instant. “Don’t you fucking dare--”

“You know I’m right!” Trevor shouted. “You fucking know it, Michael! Kill this fucker!”

“I’m not gonna kill him just because you need me to!”

Michael was almost panting with anger, his fingers curling tight around his gun. It was the truth. They’d been growing apart for years, and he knew in some way this was Trevor’s way of reeling him back in. Proving to him that they were still on the same paradigm, that there was something still holding them together.

“‘Need?’ Because _I_ need you to kill him? Do you even _hear_ yourself?” He threw his hands up in resignation, starting to turn on his heel. “Fine, you know what-- fine. Do whatever the fuck you _need_ to do, Townley.”

He watched Trevor storm back towards the car, gaze pinpointing to the soft indentation at the back of his skull. Michael raised his gun, drawing a steady breath inwards. He could end all of this. End it in an instant. It’d be so easy, like a downpour on a forest fire.

He pulled back the slide, released it, his finger moving to the trigger. So it’d change his plans. It was worth it to put him down, to end this nightmare. No more late night strung-out calls, no more pushing of every boundary he had. No more looking over and finding Trevor looking back at him, just knowing what he was thinking. Just accepting him, just loving him and--

Fuck it. He even wanted to die-- he’d said as much. It’d be doing him a favor.

Michael grit his teeth. He took a breath.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

The gunshot was deafening with no sound to absorb it, just miles of dirt and grass around. He watched Trevor flinch, longed for the satisfying sight of his blood. Predictably, none came.

Trevor turned around, turned that awful grin on Michael, throwing his head back to laugh. “God, Mikey, you had me worried you were really gonna pussy out for a minute there! You sure know how to keep a guy on his toes, huh? You fuckin’ dick, jerking me around like that.” 

He walked back to where Michael was still standing quietly, staring down at the man they’d briefly known as Jesse sputter and choke, the last of his life leaving him. His fingers curled inward, choking and gasping for air as his brain died, eyes rolling up towards the fresh hole in the center of his skull.

Flicking the safety, Michael put away his gun, kept staring at the man bleeding out into the dirt. “Look what the fuck you made me do,” he muttered. “Christ.”

“Nah, M, that one was all you.”

He couldn’t stand to look at Trevor, not now, not even when a hand settled on his shoulder. He didn’t push him away, just felt his own pulse racing in his throat. It felt good to kill. Just for the hell of it. It felt natural.

“Michael,” said Trevor, his voice low and husky. His fingers dug into his back, sharp as knife points. “Mike.”

“Come on,” Michael murmured, rolling his shoulder, forcing Trevor to break his hold. “We gotta deal with the body.”

Trevor stepped away, crouching down next to Jesse’s head. He rolled the skull over, pawing around for an exit wound, clicking his tongue when he didn’t find one. “Bullet must’ve shattered in his skull. Blended his brains up real good.”

“Doesn’t matter. Put him back in the van, we’ll torch it. Hopefully the cops’ll take it as infighting.”

Grabbing one of the corpse’s limp arms, Trevor raised his hand in mock salute. “Roger!”

The second body in a matter of hours. Michael worked silently as he poured gasoline, his face impossibly blank, which he knew set Trevor on edge from the way he kept stealing glances at him. He kept talking, joking, filling the silence with a one-sided argument. Michael didn’t entertain it, just worked with that ruthless efficiency. Trevor eventually shut his mouth, but didn’t stop staring.

They left the van burning on the side of the road, smoke billowing into the cheery yellow sky of early afternoon. Michael kept to the backroads, not wanting to alert any attention from the highway, leaving a dust trail in their wake. He took them far away, into the dirt roads snaking through the trees, until they were hidden in the thick of the woods. He slowed abruptly, pulling them off the road into the ditch, before killing the engine.

He curled his hands around the wheel, and took a steadying breath. 

“What the fuck, Mikey, I thought we were in a fuckin’ hurry,” said Trevor, looking over at him. He seemed unsteady. “Let’s go, man.”

“I need--” He cut himself off, vaguely gesturing with a waved hand as he stared out the driver’s side window, “I need a minute.”

“I’ve seen you kill I don’t know how many fuckin’ cops and you’re suddenly heartbroken about some small town criminal who practically fuckin’ asked for it? Mikey, come on.”

“It’s not fucking him, it’s--” Again, Michael cut himself off, wiping a hand over his face. His upper lip had started to sweat. He sat there shaking with barely constrained rage for a moment, before he was slamming his fist against the dash, the wheel, anything he could reach as he thrashed, trapped in the driver’s seat. The horn cried its outrage once or twice at his abuse. “FUCK! _FUCK!!”_

Trevor bit his lower lip, barely outwardly reacting to his uncontrolled display. He looked toward the road, as if in deep thought, before he was reaching into the depths of his jacket.

“Y’know… there was nothing worth _selling_ in the van, and I wasn’t going to tell you this given you’re such a morally fucking upstanding citizen these days, but it looks like our pal back there had a bit of a personal habit.”

He finally looked over, panting and red-faced, where Trevor waved a little baggie full of white powder in front of his nose. “I think you could use a little something to take the edge off, Mike.”

Michael hadn’t touched the stuff in a hot minute, stuck to mostly drinking these days. Drugs had lost a certain level of appeal in the recent years. Watching Trevor shoot up had made things a little too real for him.

“I don’t know, man,” Michael said, staring at the bag. It was tempting, sure, but they were only an hour or so out from his place. Amanda had seen him coked out enough that she’d probably immediately call him on it, would give him the silent treatment for days.

Trevor rolled his eyes dramatically, popping open the center console of Michael’s car for a CD case. “Phil Collins? Seriously? Just when I thought you couldn’t get any more fucking lame.” He set it on the dashboard, leaning forward to tap out a bit of the powder. Michael’s mouth started to water as he watched Trevor work, his long fingers and his quickfire hands as he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a credit card with a fake name, started separating the pile into four fat lines. 

He plucked a hundred dollar bill out from the billfold of his wallet, rolled it into a tight loop, offering it to Michael. “Ladies first.”

Michael took the rolled up bill, tongue sliding out to lick his lips. He stared at the powder for a moment, felt Trevor’s eyes on him like needles, the excitement rolling off of him in waves. Michael released a withering sigh. “Christ. Fuck it.” 

He pinched one nostril shut and leaned forward to where Trevor held the CD case flat for him, snorting up the first line in one go. 

“Good. That’s good, sugar.”

He thumbed his nose as he sat back, the rushing starting from his face, numbing his throat. Trevor took the second and the third lines for himself, pressing the pad of his finger to the leftover powder, before rubbing it into his gums. He offered the tray. “Last one’s for you, man.”

Michael didn’t hesitate, snorted the last rail. It was probably a bad idea to do so much so fast, given his recent abstaining, but hell, his entire life had been a series of bad decisions. A little blow was the least of his worries, really, and the quality wasn’t half-bad.

He exhaled long and low while Trevor kicked his feet up on the dash, coughing as the substance settled in his system. It wasn’t unlike the old days, where they’d get high and just listen to music, talk for hours. It wasn’t anything like the old days, Michael couldn’t feel his face and he was going to be late for his daughter’s birthday party. Amanda was going to kill him. Trevor reached for him across the seat, his fingers soft against his outer thigh.

“Mikey.” Lower, then. “Michael.”

It felt like his skull was vibrating. He sniffed sharply, that tell-tale drip in the back of his throat. Trevor’s hand moved down to his knee, squeezing, before it was sliding back up his leg, his thumb digging in hard against his hip. “Michael.”

Michael rubbed a hand over his face. So what if he’d just killed a guy. So what if he did bad things. So what if he liked it. He was going to hell anyway, he might as well enjoy the ride.

His hand snapped out and Trevor flinched, like he was preparing for a hit, but Michael’s fingers just curled into the front of his shirt. He breathed hard through clenched teeth, looked over at Trevor, at his punched out eyes. He pushed at him. “Get in the back.”

“What?”

“Now.”

Trevor stared at him for a moment, before turning, clambering over the centre console into the backseat. Michael opened the driver’s side door, stepped out into the sun. He didn’t feel its warmth, didn’t feel the weight of his gun under his jacket, didn’t feel anything at all. He clenched his teeth, ran a hand over his face. He considered. He reconsidered. He opened the back door with sweaty palms, and slid into the depths of the backseat.

Hands planted behind him, legs spread, Trevor looked at him like it was his last meal. Michael ducked his head under the low roof, the door closing with a quiet click behind him. He didn’t move, for a moment, before he slipped forward, his knee sliding between Trevor’s parted thighs, hand reaching out to steady himself on the back of the front seat. 

Like deja vu, Trevor reached a hand forward, played with the zipper of his jacket. He eased it down with deft fingers, until it was undone, spread like the cracked ribs of an autopsy patient. Michael slid a hand underneath the material, pulled loose his gun. The air was viscous with tension as Michael considered him, considered how the back window might look painted with his blood.

“Careful where you point that thing, cowboy,” Trevor said, feigning playful, but there was something else in his voice. Not fear, not exactly. Something closer to anticipation.

Michael flicked the safety off, pulled the slide back to chamber a round, his eyes calculating. Trevor bit his lip as Michael slid the muzzle of the handgun under his chin, pressing the gun into the soft divot of his throat.

Trevor’s hand slid up the inside of his thigh, his lips parting, teeth like a black hole beneath. He laughed. “Do it.”

His finger hovered over the trigger. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Not nearly as much as you would.”

He slid the muzzle of the gun up Trevor’s jaw, grazing his temple, as intimate as a lover’s caress. There had always been a taste of danger in every interaction between them, every other word a threat. 

Trevor’s fingers climbed up his chest, down his arm, until they were wrapping around his as it held onto the gun. He moved his hand back, until the pistol was pointed squarely at his face. Trevor’s eyes were stormy, unhinged. He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the point of Michael’s gun.

He scoffed. The audacity of it, the sheer lack of self-preservation. It made his cock start to thicken out in his pants. He sucked in a sharp breath as Trevor’s tongue slipped out, pointed sharp as it traced the rim of the muzzle, his gaze locked with Michael’s.

“See, Mikey?” he teased, his lips wet as they grazed the front sights, “You and I are more alike than you wanna admit.”

“You think so, do ya?”

“Mm, yeah, I do.” His thumb teased the edge of Michael’s crotch. “A fresh kill always turns my fuckin’ crank, too.”

“At least I don’t fuck the corpse!”

“Ah, but one little slip of the finger, one little twitch-- and you could.”

Michael’s hand shot forward, planting on the other side of his head, caging him in against the door. Trevor started laughing, low and cruel, as Michael traced the gun down to the edge of his jaw. He tapped him twice with the muzzle, pushed it sharply against the bone, forcing his neck upward. 

“There’s something wrong with you,” Michael said.

“Yeah-- you’re what’s wrong with me.” Trevor’s eyes lowered to his mouth, his breath hot and rancid as it fanned over his face. “I’ve been sick of you since the day we met.”

He shook his head, grinning. “Fuck you.”

“You want to?”

Trevor’s fingers hooked into the neck of his t-shirt. They held each other at arm’s length, the distance of a canyon between them, until it was too impossible to bear any longer. It felt like his whole body was on fire, like he was alive, and he didn’t know if he moved closer or Trevor did. When their lips finally met it was like being shot in the face.

The hungry noise Trevor made into his mouth made him needle the gun closer to his jaw, Trevor’s hands sliding up his neck, pulling him closer. Their foreheads pressed together, almost painful, like Trevor was trying to break right past his skull, build a nest in Michael on the cellular level, and stay there forever. He was all teeth and tongue, the loaded gun pressed to his temple barely a deterrent. Michael had only ever _just_ kept him at bay. He couldn’t control him, he couldn’t control _anything_ , let alone himself.

Michael grunted as Trevor shoved at him, knocking him back and away, until they were just gasping, staring at each other. They hadn’t done this in years, Michael wouldn’t let him that close. Something had to give, he knew it. He couldn’t do it anymore, as much as he tried to fake it.

He leaned back, slowly, not wanting to startle. Trevor looked at him darkly, his chin low to his chest. Michael kept the gun loose in his hold as he draped his arm over the back seat, a latent threat rather than an immediate one. A reminder, more to himself. 

Michael sucked his thin lower lip into his mouth. He looked at his oldest, truest friend. His only friend. “Get the fuck over here.”

Slinking forward, Trevor crawled into his lap, straddling his thighs. His fingers grazed Michael’s shoulders, before digging in with bruising force, bolder now that he’d finally been given permission. They’d prowled around each other, hungry, waiting for it for far too long.

His hand settled on Trevor’s bony hip, fingers spreading wide. Trevor rocked against him, made him feel his weight. “Not nearly so unaffected as you like to pretend, hm?”

Michael almost laughed. His skin felt like it was melting. “You’re like a fever I can’t sweat out, T.”

“Well, then. Must be destiny, Mikey.”

“Or the black fuckin’ death.”

With just the two of them, substance and violence and a long day’s night blending the surroundings into nothing, it was easier to admit it out loud. He felt it wash over his head, saw himself reflected in Trevor’s twisted look, the hand on his hip moving to his throat as he kissed him again. It was like trying to hold onto a river, like watching it rush through his fingers. He couldn’t tame it.

His palm slapped sharp against Trevor’s face, shoving at him, pushing him lower. Trevor gave him look that was almost obscene, his hands slipping down Michael’s chest, over his shirt. He went for his belt. “When’s the last time anyone sucked your pathetic cock, anyway?”

The last time Amanda wanted a new pair of expensive shoes but didn’t want to ask. He wasn’t about to tell Trevor that, or about the girls he’d paid before that when the need to tell someone what to do without questioning got to be too much. He wasn’t about to tell him the shot of arousal that went through him at being reminded of how much he should hate himself for this, but Trevor, that bastard, he probably knew anyway.

“I’ll take care of you. I’ve got you,” said Trevor, his fingers popping the button of his pants. His fingers slipped inside, Michael arching his neck as Trevor curled a hand around his cock through his underwear. “I’m the only one who knows how to take care of you, sugar-- you’ve been away from me far too fuckin’ long.”

The worst part, the very worst part, was that he was right. The way it had used to be, when they’d been innately tangled in each other, it was like nothing else. More intense than any drug Michael had ever tried, more addictive. He’d denied himself for so long, the first hit of it felt like a pure rush of dopamine, pure and clean.

He lifted his hips when prompted, pants and underwear left loosely hooked on one ankle, his shoes still on. Trevor slipped his fingers under his shirt, shoved it up under his arms. He nuzzled his face against Michael’s stomach, like a stray dog scenting him, crouching low onto the floor as he worked his way down to his pubic hair. It was a bad fit, in the backseat, but it didn’t matter. They’d lived and died in cars for years, it was almost poetic that they would fall to pieces together again inside of one.

Michael’s head thunked against the window as Trevor wrapped a rough hand around his bare cock, started working him in slow pulls. He was only half-hard, coke always went straight to his dick, but it felt good, especially as Trevor’s tongue snaked out to touch the tip. He looped an arm under Michael’s thigh, dragged his ass forward on the seat, gave himself more room to work with with his shoulder snug up against the center console. 

His fingers were soft against his inner thigh, a slow, petting motion. Tender. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to think about how it made him feel, didn’t _want_ to feel as he gripped Trevor’s thin hair. “You said you were gonna suck it, so suck.”

“Careful, M,” Trevor chided. “Someone might almost think you were sweet on me or somethin’.”

“Suck my fucking cock, Trevor.”

He chuckled, finally opening his mouth to take the head inside. Michael groaned, pulling him in closer, Trevor easily taking more of him. He gave head like he was born for it, born from it, reverently giving Michael exactly what he’d asked for. It was easy to relax into it, let his mind swim as the sensation took over, Trevor’s hands light on the inside of his thighs, his mouth as harsh and sucking as a void.

Trevor pulled off of his cock with a wet pop of suction. “You aren’t even fucking hard, M. You’re a fucking embarrassment.”

“It’s the blow, T, you know that-- just keep going.”

“You want this.” He didn’t sound sure. Michael wasn’t even sure. “You want me.”

“Yeah, I want you--” As far away from as him as he could get, “--to stop talking and put my dick in your mouth.”

He made a low, filthy noise, and took him back into his mouth. His hands slipped lower, cradling Michael’s balls, making him bite the inside of his cheek. His face felt flushed, overwhelmed, like he was about to shatter inside of his skin, all the sharp parts of his ego cutting him down right to the nerve.

It felt good, but he couldn’t get into it. He couldn’t lose himself into it the way he used to, when they were younger. Michael grunted, felt the graze of teeth, and not even thinking he pressed the muzzle of his gun against Trevor’s temple. “Watch it.”

His cock twitched, started to fill out at the image before him, his best friend on his knees with a gun to his head, servicing him. Trevor laughed wetly, tongue sliding down the length of his dick, biting his inner thigh. “What do you say-- this one might make the top five, eh, Mike? Pretty fucked up.”

Michael’s finger stroked the trigger guard, his hands twisting in Trevor’s hair. “Mm, you don’t get back on my dick and it just might take the top spot.”

“Ooh, yeah, _yeah_. Make your own hole to fuck, stick your boy right in there, _nnn_ , you did always know how to get me going.”

Trevor sucked him down almost giddily. Michael’s toes curled his his boots, and he sighed, watched him through lowered lashes. Fuck if he couldn’t picture it, even, sliding his cock through the slurry of Trevor’s ruined brain. He could almost pretend the edge of his teeth was the scrape of skull.

He didn’t even give a cursory, expected rebuttal when the pad of a finger teased his asshole, spread his legs for it, even. He was too stuck on that image, pushing his fingers into a bullet hole to scrape out brain matter, sick with himself. Trevor already knew him better than he knew himself, and it scared the hell out of him, more exhilarating than facing certain death. 

Michael’s finger slipped to the trigger, his blood thundering in his ears. He could do it. He could blow Trevor’s brains out all over the back of his car, get it detailed, take it back to Amanda and drive their kids to school with nobody the wiser. Put an end to this madness. 

Trevor’s mouth was hot and wet on his cock, his finger pressing inside, and the pleased noises that were coming out of him almost sounded like he was the one getting something out of this. Who was this even for? Who did this hurt more? Which of them was worse?

His dick was finally mostly hard, thank fuck, and Trevor was working on him in the single-minded way he did on a job, like he had something to prove. He probably felt like he did, moaning when Michael pushed his hips up to almost choke him with his cock. He held him down, didn’t let him breathe, and Trevor just took it until Michael finally released him, thick strings of saliva leaving his mouth as he pulled off.

It felt like it went on forever. His cock was almost numb, painfully red with blood and friction, the finger curling up inside him doing more for him than anything else. An old truck kicked up dust as it rushed past them on the backroad, rocks pinging the windows. When Michael’s orgasm finally hit it was as awful and unnecessary as the entire fucking trip had been. It was incredible. The sound he made was high and weak, his face sweating red.

Trevor pulled away, tonguing the cracked corner of his mouth. He looked up, that evil glint in his eyes, his finger still up to the knuckle in Michael’s ass.

“Don’t you say a fucking word,” Michael wheezed. He reached down between them, gripping Trevor’s wrist to force his hand away.

He experimentally clenched against that empty feeling, his knees weak as he watched Trevor slide that finger into his mouth with detached disgust. The gun sagged in his hands, clipping Trevor’s ear, before he was moving, crawling up into Michael’s lap. He reached down between them for his fly, pulling his cock out when Michael wouldn’t touch him, hand curling around his length.

“You gonna make me jerk myself off? Won’t even return the favor?”

Michael looked up at him, chuckling breathlessly. “You’re always sayin’ how selfish I am. You tell me.”

Teeth grit, Trevor’s hand worked furiously between them, almost nailing Michael in the gut with every upstroke. “Mikey,” he almost whined, “You gotta give me something more to work with, you _owe_ me, come on, man. Just-- _touch_ me, M, please, please touch me.”

He tapped his cheek with the side of his gun. “Open up.”

Obedient, Trevor did as he was told, for once. It made Michael's limp dick twitch with renewed, frightening interest. The muzzle of the gun bumped his lower lip. “Wider.” He opened his mouth until his jaw creaked, metal clinking against his teeth as Michael wedged it in further, felt the resistance of his tongue pushing back.

Trevor closed his eyes in reverence. Blind, unflinching trust. Michael ripped the gun from his mouth, pulled him closer to kiss him, and like a slashed artery it was all over in messy seconds.

They oozed together into a pile like congealed blood. Trevor nestled his head in the crook of Michael’s neck, ejaculate congealing between them. Michael traced the gun down his arm, then dropped it to the side, gathering his arms around Trevor’s back. Holding him.

He leaned his head back against the backseat, exhaling slowly. The sweat started to dry tacky on his skin, the fabric under his arms bunched up and uncomfortable. Trevor was shaking like a feral animal against him, his head down, eyes hidden.

Michael swallowed thickly. He’d made a mistake. He’d made a huge fucking mistake. His entire miserable existence was a mistake. He should pick up that gun and put it in his own mouth, and with any luck, Trevor would follow right along. Everyone would be better off.

They hadn’t come together like this in years. He’d drawn a line in the sand after the last chaotic time this had happened (and the last, and the last), and yet here he was dashing it out once more, welcoming the tides. The more ground he gave, the harder Trevor pushed, until they were just flowing into one another with the force of a dam breaking. It wasn’t good, and it wasn’t right.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Fuck. Oh, fuck me.”

Trevor scoffed, his breath warm on Michael’s neck. “Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet on me now, M.”

“Jesus _fuckin’_ Christ!” He put a hand between them, pushing Trevor as far back as he could, unsticking them like velcro. There wasn’t much room for him to go, his back pressed up against the front seat. “What the fuck am I _doing_?”

“Let’s see… getting your rocks off on the interplay of sex and violence, doing something you _really_ want but don’t want to admit you want, regretting it-- for some fuckin’ reason-- and immediately finding some way to make it big bad Trevor’s fault. Yep, seems like a pre-tty typical day ending in ‘y’ for you, Mikey.”

His breath had started to come faster. He felt trapped. Suffocated. “This was a bad idea. God, Trevor, this was a _really fucking bad_ idea!”

Trevor’s eyes narrowed as he looked back at him, still balanced precariously on Michael’s bare thighs. He couldn’t sit upright, the ceiling of the car so low, his hair hanging around his face, limp and stringy. “Can’t even give me five fuckin’ minutes to bask in the afterglow, huh?”

“See, this is why I can’t fucking be around you,” he spat, trying to right himself even as Trevor’s eyes went murderous. Trevor’s knees locked tight around him, pinning him in place, even as Michael struggled to sit upright. “This isn’t who I-- Trevor, this isn’t-- this isn’t _right_.”

“ _Bullshit_ , Michael! This is the only time you let the real you out, when you’re _with me_ , even though you’re never fucking _here_ anymore! And I know that it just fucking kills you to know that you’re just as fucked up as I am, and that’s why you’re running away, even though five seconds ago I _know_ you were fantasizing over pulling the fuckin’ trigger and then turning that gun on yourself.”

Michael stared at him for a long moment, and then started. “You’re fucked up. You are _insane_! Nobody wants this! Nobody wants to live like this!” 

“Nobody? You’re the one who pulled the car over, Michael, _you’re_ the one who told me to get into the back, and you’re the one who fucking kissed me first so who the _fuck_ do you think you are!”

He shut his mouth with an audible snap, felt the rage coursing through his blood at the accusation. The worst part of it was that Trevor was right. He could’ve just kept driving. 

Still, Trevor didn’t have to tempt him with the blow. Trevor didn’t have to put him in a position where he had to kill that guy in the first place, and he could've pushed him away, he’d been so rejected the last time, he would’ve thought-- he would’ve--

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Trevor repeated, his teeth bared. 

He shoved at Michael, throwing himself off of him, their bodies separating the way boiled meat separates from bone. He kicked a boot at Michael’s bare thigh, squirming to do up his pants without even bothering to clean himself up, carelessly wiping his hand off on the seat cushion. 

“I know-- I fucking _see you_ , Michael, you’re a _shell_ of a man. All your lies have eaten you from the inside, and the putrid lump of fat held in that sagging, thin skin of yours is all that’s fucking left!”

“Oh, you’d know all about _eating_ someone’s insides, wouldn’t you, T?”

Trevor fixed him with a look so dark he had to tear his gaze away, not wanting to be pulled into the depths with him. “One day, you’re going to wake up and see yourself for who you really are, Michael. I’m gonna make damn sure I’ll be there to see the look on your face.”

He wouldn’t be. That day was never going to come. He knew who he was, and this couldn’t be it. He couldn’t live with himself if it were.

Michael blinked, and a foot almost nailed him in the forehead as Trevor gracelessly crawled back into the passenger seat. For some reason, his face burned, realizing Trevor wouldn’t even look at him. How far he must have fallen.

He pulled up his pants, sniffed sharply, felt the drip down the back of his throat. When he exited the back of the car to return to the driver’s seat, he stood with his feet in the dirt for a long, awful moment. Over the trees he could see the smoke, could see the damage left in their wake. Scorched earth.

Michael got back into the driver’s seat. Trevor’s jaw worked fiercely. They didn’t speak for the rest of the drive.

* * *

“This is it.”

It was the first sentence spoken between them in the past hour, and Michael sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d smoked all of his cigarettes with the windows closed, and Trevor hadn’t even bitched, hadn’t even looked at him. His nerves were frayed as hell.

The engine ticked as it cooled down, sitting in the driveway outside of his house. There were cars he didn't recognize lining the sidewalk, a white van parked across the street, kids playing in the front yard of the house next door. His little quiet corner of suburbia had no idea what kind of demon he’d brought down upon it. 

He looked over at the profile of his oldest friend, his downturned mouth, eyes sharp as he took in every detail of the house. Probably figuring out where the doors were to lock everyone in before he staged his elaborate murder-suicide. 

“Hey,” Michael said, immediately feeling like an idiot at how casual it sounded. He cleared his throat. “T, man, I’m s--”

“Save it. I don’t wanna fuckin’ hear it.”

Michael licked his lips, his brows drawing together in a frown. “So you’re gonna act normal then?” He looked to the window, hoped Amanda wasn’t checking for him. He wanted to go in and explain, give a bit of a buffer before Trevor-- “Hey, whoa, hey, hey, hey!” 

He was already out on the pavement. Michael practically threw himself out of the car. “Trev, wait a fuckin’ sec!”

“What? I’m ‘acting normal’, Michael, getting the bags? Carrying _your shit_?” 

He rounded to the back of the car, hands flat on the trunk as he went to open it. Michael’s slapped down next to him, until they were shoulder to shoulder, glaring at each other as neither of them refused to budge.

“Trevor,” Michael said evenly, looking at him down the length of his hooked nose, “Just--”

“What? ‘Just’ what, Michael?” he hissed back. “Gonna tell me to fuck off, tell me to cut loose like I know you fucking want to? Because this was such a fucking mistake?”

Michael closed his eyes, and sucked in what he hoped was a calming breath. It didn’t work very well. “Let me go in and talk to Amanda. Smooth things over. Just hang out for a bit, and then I’ll come out and get you. Okay?”

He waited as Trevor searched him for any trace of doubt, his eyes narrow with distrust. Then, slowly, his hands slipped off the trunk, and he turned to prop himself against it. He crossed his arms, tilting his head away. “Alrighty.”

Starting off towards the front steps, he turned, one last little nugget of knowledge springing to mind. “Oh, and T, we’re called the Myers family here. Let’s keep our stories straight.”

Trevor’s eyebrows rose up to his forehead, and he chuckled, pointing a finger at him. “You got it, Mr. Michael Myers.”

The front railing was strung with festive pink balloons, bobbing lightly in the afternoon breeze. There was a sign on the clean, white door cheerfully decrying that it was someone’s birthday inside, and Michael gave a withering sigh. It was too conspicuous, almost like there was a giant, glowing arrow over his house indicating that it contained a couple of murderous bank robbers inside. 

He let himself in, immediately overloaded with the visual clusterfuck of pink decorations hanging on every wall, the scent of food, the sound of children screaming billowing in through the open door out to the deck. He could hear adults talking, and instantly, the dull sense of panic started to rise in his chest. It was supposed to just be a small party, a few of Tracey’s friends over for a sleep over, whatever shit little kids did. He hadn’t anticipated a backyard full of people, hadn’t anticipated trying to bring Trevor into the mix with all the grace of a coyote ambling into a chick hatchery.

“Shit,” he muttered, turning the corner into the kitchen. He raised his voice. “Hey, ‘Mand?”

Michael stopped dead when he found her, her back turned to him as she sipped wine from overly large glass against the counter. In a sea of plastic soda bottles, discarded toys and reheated frozen finger foods, it was like the light spilling in from the window highlighted her, the way she used to look onstage, the first time he’d ever seen her. 

He cleared his throat. Amanda whirled around, her eyes going wide with surprise as she realized he was standing there. 

She looked good. He hadn’t seen her look so good in months, years maybe. The dress she wore was short and strappy, her bare shoulders dusted with freckles, strands of her dark chocolate hair slipping down her back. Her breasts were round and high in that push-up bra he’d bought her that she’d only worn for him once, probably wearing the matching panties, too. Her legs were smooth and shiny, she was even wearing sandals with a bit of a wedge heel. It was almost like when they’d first met, when she actually still put effort into her appearance for him.

Her cheeks puffed out almost comically as she downed her wine, slamming the glass down on the crowded counter. “Michael!”

He stepped forward into her space, the backs of her thighs hitting the cupboards as his hands slid onto her hips. “Well hello, gorgeous. Damn, Mandy, you look-- God, you smell so fuckin’ good, and your hair!” She never wore her hair down anymore. He touched a strand, so soft and silky in his fingers.

Amanda smiled at him thinly, her eyes darting around. “I, uh-- you’re _here!”_

“I told you I was gonna be here, didn’t I? Like I was gonna miss my kid’s birthday. Come on.” His hand slid down to grab a handful of her ample ass, and he sucked his lower lip into his mouth. The things he could do to her, looking like this. 

She put a hand on his chest, putting some distance between them. “Everything went-- _okay_ on your trip?” 

He stared at her mouth, the shine of the gloss there. “Yeah, baby, everything’s great. All taken care of.” His fingers grazed the bare line of her collar, his thumb brushing the dip of her neck. She didn’t have any bruises, no sores. Michael gritted his teeth. He let his hand drop, nodding towards the door out to the patio, the sounds of life outside. “Who the fuck are all those people?”

“Well, you didn’t pick up your phone. I wasn’t sure you were going to be back in time, so I invited some-- some friends.” Her eyes went soft, and she looked away from him. “I didn’t want Tracey to think nobody cared about her birthday.”

“And so you invite a bunch of fucking strangers into our house?” he asked, tightly. 

“They’re not _strangers_ , Michael, they’re my friends. And technically, they’re in the backyard, not the house.” She chewed her lip. “And my sister, she came too-- she brought her new boyfriend. He seems nice.”

“Oh great! Just great. I was so looking forward to the next time she would show up to shit all over me, since I’m sure you’ve spent the past few hours singing my praises.” 

Amanda glared at him. “Do you always have to be so negative?”

“Yeah, real fucking good feelings about you not trusting me when I said I was gonna be here.” He shook his head, looking at her. “You really thought that? ‘Mand?”

Amanda didn’t speak for a moment, her eyes downcast. She hugged an arm around herself, her breasts spilling over the top of her dress as she gave a one-shouldered shrug. “You’re the one that didn’t answer your phone, Michael. What was I supposed to think?”

That tight feeling in his chest started again. He exhaled noisily, felt the urge to lash out at her. It wasn’t like he had a choice, taking off like that. It wasn’t like there was some greater power spawning birthday presents out of thin fucking air, like she seemed to think.

He planted his feet, cornering her against the cupboards. “Amanda, look--”

The sound of screaming from the foyer made him start. Michael threw a frantic look at the doorway, and took off. 

“Michael!” Amanda called after him.

Skidding to a stop in the front entrance, it was like his heart had temporarily frozen in his chest. Images of a massacre tumbled through his mind, he could practically picture the blood spatter arcs on the Winter Orchard white walls (rather than Lily of the Valley white, Michael, it’s just different), the look on Amanda’s face when every fear she’d ever had was proven right just before Trevor would cut her down. 

Instead, he was presented with Tracey squealing, her arms looped around Trevor’s neck as she hung off him like a noose yet to be strung. Jimmy stood off to the side, quiet as always, his eyes up and alert instead of lost in some videogame or another for once.

“Uncle T! Oh my God, you’re really here!” shrieked Tracey, kicking her feet as she dangled listlessly around Trevor’s neck.

“Jesus Christ, kiddo, you weigh a ton,” Trevor said, jovially. He dropped the bags to the ground, swung his arms under Tracey’s back and knees, turning her to hold her bridal style. “Good thing your Uncle T has such _huge_ , manly muscles to lug you around now that you’re so Goddamn grown up. When did you get so old?”

She looked up at him in total adoration. “I’m not _that_ old!”

“Trevor,” said Amanda, flatly. 

Trevor looked up, his lips twitching as he barely restrained a smug smile. “Well, hey there, Amanda. Aren’t you just all dolled up?”

Tracey disentangled herself from his hold, dropping to the floor. She scrambled over to her mother, completely bypassing Michael, grabbing Amanda’s hands as she jumped up and down. “Thank you, mom, thank you, thank you, thank you! This is the best birthday ever!”

“Why’re you thanking her?” Michael said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. His heart was still thundering against his ribs. “I’m the one who brought him.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically, releasing her mother’s hands. Amanda didn’t seem to notice, still engaged in a battle of wills with Trevor, who just grinned back at her. Tracey flounced over to her father, throwing herself at his stomach in a hug. “Hi daddy.”

“Hi baby,” he said, setting a hand on the top of her head. “Happy birthday, Trace.”

Tracey pulled her face back, her nose wrinkled. “You smell like gross cigarettes.”

Michael smiled thinly. Her golden hair was so fine and delicate under his fingertips. So fragile. She pulled away, out of his hold. 

“Hi Uncle T,” said Jimmy, his toes turned in as he stood back. At eleven, he’d yet to really come out of his shell, asthmatic and riddled with health issues as he was. Amanda babied him far too much.

Trevor crouched down to his level, elbows on his knees. “You gonna just stand there, Jimbo? Or you gonna give your old Uncle T a hug?”

A little shy smile dawned there, and Jimmy shuffled over into his open arms. Michael felt Amanda stiffen next to him at the sight of it, Jimmy wasn’t much of a hugger other than with her, the tension radiating off of her in waves. Tracey skipped over, as well, pulling at Trevor’s jacket. “ _So_ ,” she started, impishly, “did you bring me a birthday present?”

“You think I’d turn up empty handed? It’s--”

“You can open presents later, Tracey. After we eat,” Amanda said. She beckoned the kids over almost frantically, but they ignored her, focused on Trevor’s overwhelming presence that seemed to fill up the entire space, right up to the walls. “Kids, why don’t you--”

“Sis? Did you fall into the bottle and die? Where the hell are you?”

“Oh, fuck me,” Michael muttered, under his breath. 

He turned, looking over his shoulder, to where Amanda’s younger sister stood gawping at them from the kitchen entrance. Katie had never liked him, to put it mildly, and he braced himself upon seeing the look she gave him as she traipsed forward, her hair billowing out behind her like a witch’s cape. She was made up, her lashes long and dramatic as she looked him over, but her tits were covered up for once. More subdued, then.

“Oh, Michael! You decided to show up, after all.” 

“Katie, so nice to see you in the daylight, for once! How’s the club, these days?”

He hadn’t kept up with her much at all, especially not since the last move put them a significant drive away. She’d continued stripping long after their mother’s hand had finally lifted off the backs of her and her sister, and she still had that air about her like she was too good for him. She was prettier than her older sister, sure, but hell if he could stand her at all.

“I have a new job, now, not that you care,” she said, curtly. Her eyes flicked to Trevor. “I'm assuming you're the infamous ‘Uncle T?’”

“The one and only.” He stood up to his full height, looking her up and down. “Glad to finally meet you. I’ve heard _so_ much about you and your _work_ , and you know, any family of Mikey’s is family of mine.”

Michael’s hand curled into a fist at his side. He looked at his children, Trevor’s hands on either of their shoulders, the dirt and God knew what else crusted under his fingernails.

“Katie, can you take the kids back outside, entertain the guests? I need a word with my husband,” said Amanda, tersely. “Privately.” 

Katie shot him a superior look, as Tracey and Jimmy walked over to her, slightly dejected. “Oh, you're in for it now,” she said.

He was sorely tempted to tell her exactly where to fuck off, but he strangled it back. Trevor chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets as the kids walked away with their aunt. 

Amanda motioned him towards the bedroom. “Now?”

“Guess I’ll just make myself at home, then,” said Trevor, jovially.

“You always do,” said Amanda, turning sharply on her heel. “Michael? Now.”

Trevor snorted. “Good luck, brother.”

“Yeah, fuck you, too,” sniped Michael. 

He turned to follow his wife, and as he shut the door behind him, it was like stepping through the proverbial looking glass. Out of the frying pan and into the--


	3. THE LITTLE FINGER

Fire. It felt like flames were licking the sides of her face. The moment the bedroom door shut behind him, she was ready to go. The sheer fucking gall of him, bringing Trevor Philips into their _home_ \-- especially after the last time. Having to explain to Tracey and Jimmy that they needed to move again, that they couldn’t talk to their friends anymore, listening to them cry. It had made her feel like the worst mother alive. 

Amanda stared at him, cataloguing every detail, looking for every sign of disarray. He seemed out of place in the muted periwinkle of the bedroom, a dark smear against the door. 

Michael turned to her, rubbing a thumb under his eye, and she could tell that he was already preparing for her to lay into him. This was routine to them, now.

He was a little coked up, that much she could tell. The white powder at the base of one nostril, his red, sunken-in eyes-- he didn’t look like he’d slept in days. He probably hadn’t. His clothes were wrinkled, and the black fabric stretched over his belly bore some shining stain he probably hadn’t noticed. There was a spot of blood on the sleeve of his jacket, which again, he probably hadn’t noticed. She hoped no one else had. 

His hair was still neatly combed, and he seemed hyper-alert, sporting a dark five o’clock shadow. His hands were restless when he lowered them to his sides, like his fingers were itching for the gun she knew he was carrying. Paranoid. The smell of cigarette smoke and nervous sweat wafted off of him, and she hated that she almost missed it while he was gone.

He looked like a carefully contained mess, as usual. At least he wasn’t drunk.

“Michael,” she started, shutting her mouth again. She shook her head. “I don’t know where to start with you.”

“Then don’t start,” he snapped back, stepping forward.

Amanda held her ground, kept her chin up. She wasn’t going to let him bulldoze her on this, the way he usually did. “I told you last time that I didn’t want him coming around anymore, Michael. I know he’s your best friend but, _look at him!_ He’s an addict and only God knows what else. Things were okay when we were younger, and he was less, well-- but Tracey’s getting old enough now to understand and--” She cut herself off. Michael was staring at her, his eyes unreadable. “He’s _dangerous_. I don’t want him around the kids.”

“What the fuck do you want me to do about it? He’s here, isn’t he? We just--” He wiped a hand over his mouth, his eyes darting around. She could practically see the gears turning. “We gotta deal with it, ‘Mand.”

“It’s our house. Tell him to leave.”

Michael chuckled, darkly. “Oh yeah! I’ll just walk up to him in front of our kids, your sister and all those fuckin’ guests you just _had_ to invite and tell him to fuck off. He’ll love that.”

“You want _me_ to tell him then? Because I’ll--” 

“No,” he said, almost too quickly. “You won’t.”

He reached for her, but she pulled back, crossing her arms. She couldn’t stand the idea of him touching her, not now. Michael’s hands curled into fists, and he let them hang at his sides, useless. She desperately wanted to shake him, wanted to get through to him, somehow. He just never _listened_.

Amanda’s gaze dipped. She couldn’t look at him. “Why are you doing this to me? Why did you invite him? Michael-- _why?_ ”

“I didn’t fucking invite him!” he hissed, suddenly in her space. She backed up, her shoulders hitting the dresser. Her jewelry box moved, producing the tinkling sound of her necklaces swinging against one another. It took every ounce of inner-strength, learned from self-help books she hid at the bottom of her nightstand, to stand tall against him.

She’d wasn’t scared of Michael. Not exactly. She wasn’t worried that he would hit her, or the kids. He wasn’t that kind of man. 

She worried _for_ him. Every time Trevor Philips got it in his head that he needed her husband more than she did, he would tear off into the night and turn up days or weeks later looking shell-shocked. He always played it cool in that way that dazzled her before she’d seen the softness of his underbelly, but then the glasses would start to stack up. He would talk and talk without ever saying anything.

Michael never spoke about their ‘work’. She’d drawn her own conclusions, and re-drawn them, and thrown them out the window entirely, slammed it shut and locked it. She couldn’t let herself think about it. She redecorated the guest room, instead.

She had the kids. She kept herself busy with Tracey’s dance lessons, she cheered from the sidelines of Jimmy’s baseball games, even if he was always benched. She went to PTA meetings, took her anti-anxiety medication as prescribed. She washed dishes in the mornings to the white noise of the daily news report, made coffee, looked out the window and wondered if anyone was looking back. Watching them. 

She kept track of the cars parked out on the road day by day, and made a point to meet all the neighbours. The housewives in their little cul-de-sac got together for gossiping, wine and cheese on Thursday afternoons, and she’d smile every time they would tell her, tearfully, that she was such a good listener.

“I didn’t invite him,” Michael repeated, somewhat calmer, a little regretful, even. He glanced up to the dresser, straightening the jewelry box. His fingers untangled two necklaces that had twisted together, painfully intertwined. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Stupid shitty necklace, come on.”

His hand dropped to the edge of the dresser with a slap, and he held on, caging her in against it. Michael’s chin dropped to his chest. Amanda took a deep breath, reaching for him.

His shoulders jumped when she touched the base of his throat. Her fingers were light as he turned his face into her hands, Amanda steeling herself as he finally looked her way. She could see the guilt in his eyes, and something else she couldn’t quite identify. She’d spent years learning his tells, could pluck his lies from truths like a piece of shell in a runny egg white. And yet always, when she dared to bite down, she still found that telltale fucking crunch.

Amanda grazed a thumb over the stubble on his jaw, letting her hand drop to his chest. Her palm lifted away, she didn’t want to touch him too much. She had no idea where he’d been.

“So,” she murmured, “if you didn’t invite him, how’d he--”

“He didn’t really give me a fucking choice.” He shook his head harshly. “He just knew.”

There was a comment she barely restrained about how Trevor Philips knew more about their kids than their father, but it wasn’t the time. Instead, she nodded. “Okay. So what do we do, Michael?”

Michael stepped back. He ran a hand over his mouth, then extended his fingers out. Thinking. She took a step over to the bed, and sat down, her hands in her lap.

He turned to her, his palms spread wide. “Okay,” he started, in that determined way he got. Amanda sat up straight. “We have a backyard full of people, your sister and her boyfriend, bunch of kids running around. I’ll-- I’ll keep him busy. Keep him away from too many people asking questions, and take control over any conversation. Far as they’re concerned, he’s just the kids’ weird uncle, uh, we work together and if anyone asks about the-- he’s in recovery. Tryin’ to go straight.”

Amanda snorted. “Him? Straight. Alright.” 

He gave her a withering look. “Amanda, come the fuck on.”

She tamed her expression. “Sorry.”

“And you-- you gotta keep him away from your sister,” he said, pointing a finger into her face. She knocked it away, frowning. “You know how Katie is, always stickin’ her fuckin’ nose in everyone’s business.”

“Fine, Michael.” She took a breath. She was getting nervous knowing just what was waiting for outside the bedroom door. Trevor knew exactly how to push her buttons, and the last thing she wanted was to fly into hysterics in front of everyone. “Anything else?”

“We just need to keep him occupied until after presents and cake. Then we can get everyone out, and I don’t know-- deal with him.”

“Presents and cake, okay,” she said. She blinked. She shot to her feet, startling him. “Oh shit. The cake!”

“The cake?”

“You remembered to pick up the cake, right?”

“Fuck no, I didn’t remember to-- I thought you said you didn’t think I was gonna make it, why didn’t you fuckin’ deal with it?”

“I forgot!” she spat. “I did _everything else_ by myself, so how exactly is this _my_ fault? You said that you’d take care of it. I can’t depend on you at all, Michael, I can’t ask you to do one fucking thing.”

“Amanda--” She stepped towards the door, but he grabbed her arm, holding her back. “ _Stop._ ”

She felt the urge to run, or to smack him, she wasn’t sure. She didn’t want him to touch her with those awful hands, the same hands that had held Tracey’s head so delicately when she was born, that showed Jimmy how to throw a ball, even though he could never quite do it up to his father’s standards. The same hands with that bloodstain on the wrist.

His face went cold. He let go of her, and she almost felt herself falling without him. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he said, flatly. “I’ll get the cake.”

Amanda stared at the door. Trevor Philips was waiting just outside. “But what about--”

“It’ll be fine. I’m doing the _one fucking thing_ you asked me to do, since you have _so much_ fuckin’ faith in me. I’ll be back in five minutes, you won’t even miss me.”

“Michael--”

“ _Amanda_.” He said it in that tone, that one that made it clear that she wasn’t going to gain any ground on him. When he spoke again, it was in a slightly calmer, more pointed tone. “Enough.”

She crossed her arms. “Okay, then. Just leave me here. Alone. With _him_.” 

Michael looked like he was going to get angry again, the heat rising behind his eyes. Amanda readied herself for a real fight, holding all of her ammunition against him close to the chest. The tirade didn’t start. Instead, he turned sharply to the door, ready to leave her again.

For some reason that made it worse.

“Wait--”

“What?” he asked. “What now?”

“Change your shirt, at least. Wash your face,” she said, tightly. “You look like a disgusting slob.”

He looked down at himself, at his wrinkled shirt, finally noticing the blood on the sleeve of his jacket. He started shouldering out of it, and she saw the dull flash of metal at his belt. She whirled around, walking over to the closet, looking for something acceptable for him to wear. 

By the time he was storming down the front steps, Amanda had accepted her fate. That same sort of numb feeling she had whenever she watched him turn up after he was gone for ‘work’, where he was distant for a few days, quiet, before the gifts started showing up. She always knew when he was guilty. She half-expected he’d show up with a grandiose bouquet of flowers, a double-tiered cake, nicer than the one she’d picked out.

She closed the front door behind him, and took a breath. It felt like knives were driving into her lungs as she stood there in the little foyer, embraced in the potted ferns, Jimmy’s shoes in the way. She’d told him to put them into their proper place probably a hundred times. Nobody fucking listened to her.

Amanda stepped into the kitchen with a degree of caution, instantly angry that she was tiptoeing in her own house. There Trevor was, predictably, loitering around like he owned the place. He’d hopped up onto the island, his heels bouncing against the cupboards she’d had revarnished only a few months ago, drinking straight out of the bottle of wine she’d only just opened. 

His gaze panned over lazily to her, and he took another languid pull from the bottle. “Hey dollface,” he said, almost too casual, “Where’d Mikey go? You scare him off already?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, studying every detail of his face. He looked worse than her husband, had the pallor of a dead man. There were unexplained bruises along his throat that the collar of his shirt didn’t quite hide, but at least he was clean-shaven, he didn’t smell as bad as usual. The way he kept tonguing the cracks in his lips, his dry mouth, she knew he was on something. He’d probably been high for a long time. She hadn’t really seen him sober in years.

When she and Michael had first gotten together, she’d known early on that Trevor didn’t like her that much. That was putting it nicely. She always felt that they were in some strange tug-of-war for Michael’s attention, and Michael, the bastard, fucking played them off of each other like some madcap dueling pianos act. They fell for it every time, of course, passive aggressive insults lobbed at each other until it occasionally bubbled over into outright hostility. The prelude to premeditated murder.

Still, there’d been times, before, when they’d pooled their efforts. Michael’s thirtieth birthday had been particularly memorable. Trevor had somehow managed to rent out the cheap theatre in town for a night, Amanda had found a sitter for the kids, and they’d both tolerated each other long enough to endure a marathon of Michael’s favorite terrible movies. Michael had sat in the middle. He’d talked the entire fucking time, of course, and the way he would snort with laughter made her groan, but it was probably the only time she could remember him really, truly happy in the past few years. Or maybe it was just the coke Trevor had steadily fed them all night, Michael _alive_ and magnetic the way he used to be. She didn’t do that kind of thing anymore, though.

“H-ell _ooo_ , earth to Amanda. Where’s Mikey?”

She snapped out of her thoughts, eyes flicking around the kitchen, trying to map out the safest path. “He-- he went to pick up the cake.”

Trevor slid off the counter, liquid in that almost catlike, predatory way he moved. She stepped into her kitchen, beelining for the glass of wine she’d left behind, where it stood over by the sink. God knew she was going to need it. 

She picked up the glass, and Trevor was at her side, wiggling the bottle in her face. Somehow, he’d encroached in on her personal space despite her maneuvers. She could almost feel the frenetic energy radiating off him, the feeling of desperation that always seemed to cling to him like rot on a fruit gone bad. “Want a top up? I think you could use a drink.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” she said, bluntly. 

“Damn, Amanda. You’re almost as cranky as that fat sack of shit you call a husband. A pretty impressive feat.” He gestured a little wildly, the wine sloshing inside the bottle. “Smile! It’s a birthday party! Something is fuckin’ wrong with the both of you, Jesus.”

“Something wrong with-- well, _maybe_ it’s because my husband took off for days on end without returning my calls, or _maybe_ it’s because he showed up with _you_ in tow, and _maybe_ it’s because you’re holding my eighty dollar bottle of Costa Del Perro hostage in your shitty little hands!” 

Trevor grinned at her, slamming the bottle down on the counter. The dishes in the sink rattled with the force of it, the dishcloth teetering off where it was hung on the tap, falling listlessly into the basin. “Ooh, there she is! Feisty!”

“Fuck off.” Her face heated with embarrassment. She never wanted to reveal that much around him, about her marriage, about her feelings-- it was like baring her throat, showing him just where to sink his teeth in.

They glared at each other for a moment, before she picked the bottle up. She made a point of turning on the tap, wiping off the mouth of it, before refilling her glass to almost the top. She bowed over to sip the overfull glass where it swelled at the top, before picking it up by the stem once more.

She could feel Trevor watching her. He always creeped her out, a little, moreso now that he’d long passed the point of being merely unhinged. They’d played tennis, in those early days, when he’d crash on the fold-out couch, and they’d take the kids to the park, Michael smoking cigarettes on the bench, alone. Trevor would always hit the ball back a little too hard, catch her in the face or the chest, and always laughed her bruises off like it was some big joke. 

She always wondered if he was going to snap and really hurt her, one day. She wasn’t completely ignorant to the things he and her husband did, after all. She knew he was capable of it. 

“So,” she continued, after a large gulp of wine. “Where were you two?”

“Michael didn’t tell you?”

“No.” He never told her anything. Amanda lowered her voice, glancing out the sliding glass door out to the patio, where the guests were milling about and the kids were playing. “But we need to make sure everyone’s on the same page.”

Trevor raised an eyebrow, cocking his hip against the counter. “Then-- we were out towards Blue Springs. He had a ‘meeting’ with a business contact, and then picked me up as a surprise for Tracey.”

She bit the edge of her glass. “How elaborate.”

“Like they’re gonna fuckin’ care about the details. Ply ‘em with enough booze, food, add in some screaming, sugar-high brats-- they’re not gonna think twice about why the prodigal husband showed up late for his kid’s shindig.”

“Maybe.”

Trevor looked at her, his hair too long, falling in his face. She suddenly felt uncomfortable, like he was about to ask her something she wasn’t ready to answer. Instead he just made a low noise, following her line of sight out to the patio, where Tracey was messing around with a group of her friends, the center of attention, a grin wide across her face. 

“Thirteen this year, eh.”

“Yeah.” She smiled without meaning it, a little sad. “My little girl’s a teenager, now.”

Amanda tapped a nail against her wine glass. For some reason, her eyes stung a little. 

“I miss it, you know,” Trevor murmured. She glanced over at him, before hiding her face in her wine glass. “I miss bein’ around more-- seeing the kids, watching ‘em grow up.” He leaned in closer, his breath hot and musty against her cheek. His finger traced up her bare arm. “I miss you, even… and Michael…”

“Trevor, you--” She swallowed, going carefully still. She moved away, ever so slightly, just so that he couldn’t touch her. “You and I both know why things can’t be the way they were.”

Not after the last time. She’d screamed so hard she’d blown out a blood vessel in her eye. The next-door neighbour had showed up, said he’d heard the racket, and quietly asked if she needed help. She’d smiled. No, she didn’t need help. She was just fine, thank you. Michael had disappeared into a bottle for the better part of the week, and by Friday, they were putting their things into boxes to the drone of news reports on the television. She’d really liked that house, too.

The muscle in Trevor’s jaw flexed as he grit his teeth. His hand dropped down to the counter, gripping down. “Oh trust me, honey, you’ve made it crystal fuckin’ clear.” 

“And yet, here we are.” 

“Here we are.”

She sucked in a deep breath, polishing off the last of her wine. She’d only meant to come back into the house in the first place to pull another tray of food out of the fridge, get some more wine. She had a party to host. 

Amanda stepped to the fridge, pulling it open, the shelves completely stuffed and overflowing. She pulled out a store-bought, pre-made appetizer tray, and turned to set it on the counter, but found it pulled roughly from her hands. 

“It’s fine, Trevor,” she said, with a scowl. She grabbed for the tray. “I’ve got--”

“--all those people out there, and you really want their first impression to be that I’m letting a lady walk out there carrying everything? What kind of gentleman would I be? It’s not like I’m gonna fuckin’ poison it, Amanda-- relax,” he said, wrenching it away from her searching finger tips, almost gleefully. “Spike the punch, though, ooh, make it a real rager! K-holing all your suburban buddies, now wouldn’t that be _just_ a gong show?”

Her hands clenched listlessly at her sides, but she grabbed a fresh bottle of wine, a bottle of soda for the kids she tucked into her elbow, just to make sure she couldn’t fly over and throttle him. Trevor gave her an expectant look as she paced over to the patio door, her hand clamping down on the handle. Her heart was high in her throat, all of a sudden.

Amanda shot him a look, trying not to flinch from the intense way he was watching her. Like he was waiting for her to bolt. 

“I need you to behave,” she said, flatly.

“‘Behave?’” he intoned, brow raised. “Behave how?”

“Just-- _act normal_.” Her hands curled tight around the bottle, heavy in her grasp. “Please, Trevor. Please, _please_ , act normal. No drugs, no picking fights, no-- just _normal_.”

He chuckled. “You spend too much fuckin’ time around Michael, you know that?”

Amanda sighed, rolling her eyes as she shouldered open the sliding door. She left it open behind her, just wide enough to fit through. Just in case she needed somewhere to run.

* * *

It wasn’t quite the white picket fence he’d envisioned. The slats of wood that encroached the Townley’s backyard were faded, light blue, cracked in places. The yard wasn’t small, but the grass was uneven, yellowed and patchy. There was a boarded over dug out in the corner where the ugly rat-faced terrier the next door neighbours kept had at one time wiggled his way out of one prison into another. For now, it just barked.

Trevor’s gaze wandered to where little paper lanterns and balloons had been strung along the patio, dipping to the picnic table bore a pastel pink cloth, done up with all kinds of food, cupcakes, sweet nothings. The barbecue lingered, untouched, in the corner like some great, black beast. Like it didn’t belong.

A card table, likely dragged out from the basement, sat against the house where it overflowed with presents, neatly stacked, every gift perfectly wrapped, a sparkling tiara sat atop. One gift wrapped in a non-descript brown paper was tucked into the corner, Trevor’s own still in the plastic OK-Mart bags hidden behind. Men and women he didn’t know and didn’t care to know milled around the last table, the one stacked with bottles and cans. Predictable. The kids were spread out on the lawn like ornaments, playing games, running around.

It was like the cover of some shitty fucking good housekeeping magazine, one so fake he wouldn’t even wipe his ass with one of the pages. All of it, bullshit.

“Great party, Amanda!” said one of her guests as they passed, gesturing with his beer. He had his arm around what had to be his wife, breathing booze all over her as they stood in a small circle with some others. “And look, she brought us even more refreshments!” 

He reached for the bottle, but his wife pulled his hand away.

“You’ve had enough for now, Pat,” his wife said, cheerily. “But really, Amanda-- this is great!”

“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” Amanda replied, with a careful smile. “Uh, Trevor, this is Pat, and his wife Eriko, and over there is Julia, Sam, their daughter Alishia and--”

“I don’t care,” he said, brushing past them. The circle parted uneasily, letting him through.

Amanda huffed behind him, motioning with her wine bottle. “Over there,” she said, pointing him to the table. She smiled and chatted with her guests, ever the perfect hostess.

He went ahead of her, dropping the tray carelessly onto the table. It earned a dirty look from Amanda as she gently set the bottles down after him. A handful of children immediately swarmed in search of snacks, and Trevor took a step back, shoving his hands in his pockets. Other people’s snot-nosed brats weren’t something he was concerned with, and the looks their parents were shooting him from afar, well, he didn’t fucking like it.

“Alright,” Amanda murmured, righting a stack of napkins as the kids took off back to their parents. Picture perfect. “That should keep everyone happy for awhile.”

“Great. Fuckin’ great,” said Trevor. He didn’t feel right, for some reason. He wanted Michael. He wanted something harder. “Now will you get me a fuckin’ beer, already? Supposed to be a party.”

Her face went stormy. “Get it yourself.”

A grin cracked Trevor’s face. Getting Amanda rattled was always a worthy source of entertainment, forcing her to unsettle the ill-fitting skin of her suburban housewife act. He’d seen her slap a fellow stripper once, breaking her precious acrylic nails off on some girl’s cheek. But that had been years ago. He didn’t know her anymore, and to be honest, he didn’t fucking care.

She’d stolen Michael from him, all those years ago, kept him in a way that he never could. She didn’t know how to take care of him right, either-- took him for granted. Michael was a piece of shit and a liar, but she didn’t know what it was like to miss him. She had no fucking idea. 

Trevor opened his mouth to tell her just where to shove it, but closed it as another man approached, stepping up cautiously behind her. He noticed the way his eyes traced the shape of Amanda’s ass, before looking up and meeting Trevor’s gaze, which he immediately averted. His hair was thick, salt and pepper, and he wasn’t hideous to look at with his glasses and his button-up shirt, tucked neatly into his pants. Classic revenge of the nerds type bullshit.

He tapped Amanda on the shoulder, and she almost jumped a foot as she turned to look. “Richard!” Her skin went pink around the cheeks, and she tucked her hair behind her ear. 

“Uh, hey, Amanda,” he started, pushing up his glasses. “Just wanted to see if you needed any help?”

Trevor chuckled. “Mental help, maybe.”

Amanda turned on him. “You’re one to talk.” She sighed. “Sorry, excuse him, he can’t help himself.”

“No, it’s-- sorry, let me introduce myself,” said Richard, switching the beer in his hands, then extending one out to shake. “I was Jimmy’s teacher last year, I’m Richard Johnson.”

“Dick,” Trevor said, eyeing the hand. He didn’t shake it.

“Uh-- it’s Richard, actually.”

“Oh, I heard you. Dick.”

His face faltered, brows pulling together. He let his hand drop, awkwardly, when Trevor didn’t move to shake it. “Are you--” He looked sidelong at Amanda, “Mr. Myers?” 

“Jesus Christ, that might be the second funniest thing I’ve heard all day. Fuck no, I ain’t her husband. Name’s Trevor-- _best friend_ to the aforementioned husband.”

“Ah. I see,” said Richard, looking to Amanda for some kind of assistance. Trevor watched her carefully, as she seemed more nervous, looking anywhere but the two of them. A mirthful smile crawled across his face. Suddenly her gaudy outfit started to make sense. “Is he-- here, then?”

As if on cue, the sliding door flew open, Michael spilling out into the backyard, his energy electric, powerful. Trevor could feel everyone’s gaze shifting over to watch as he strode over in that purposeful way he did, his shoulders strong and wide, and his eyes piercing. Even if this wasn’t Michael’s natural element, this picturesque bullshit, he could take control of any situation. It was part of the reason Trevor loved him so much, how he just seemed to command all attention. Michael knew it too, the narcissistic fucker, and Trevor hated him for loving it as much as he did.

He rolled his neck as he stepped up to their little half-circle, immediately wedging himself between the newcomer and his wife. He reached past for a beer in the cooler beside the table, and almost violently thrusted one to Trevor. The look Michael gave him as he accepted it was his usual condescending. Seemingly this was his reward for being ‘good’, like a lollipop after the dentist. Sugar to the teeth. He ripped the cap off with his canine demonstratively, much to Michael’s chagrin.

“That was quick. What, did you run there?” said Amanda, quietly, as Michael popped the top of his beer on the edge of the table. There was sweat beading at his hairline, and he gulped back half the bottle on the first go, Amanda’s eyes going steadily wider. “Michael? Everything go okay with the cake?”

He didn’t answer, just finished swallowing down the beer. When he finally brought the bottle away, he was panting. A bead of sweat ran off the tip of his nose, and he shifted the bottle to the other hand, reaching to set his hand on Amanda’s lower back. She bristled, but tolerated his touch. Trevor pressed his tongue against his teeth. That kind of casual intimate touch, she took it for granted.

Richard cleared his throat, shifting from foot to foot. “So... you must be Amanda’s husband.”

“Yeah, I’m her husband, all right,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked him up and down, brow raised. “Who’re you?”

“Mr. Richard Johnson,” Trevor answered for him. He gestured with his beer. “Said he taught Jim in school last year.”

“I--”

“Last year?” asked Michael. He reached into his jacket pocket, producing his smokes. “So why’re you here, this year, at my daughter’s birthday party?”

Amanda started. “Michael--”

“Well, I, uh-- that’s my son, Tyler,” Richard said, pointing to where Tracey was pushing around another boy about her age. He scratched at his goatee, seemed to be lost for words for a moment. “He and Tracey are friends. You’ve got a great family, by the way. Amanda helps out at the bake sale fundraiser every quarter-- couldn’t do it without her.”

He looked at her and smiled fondly. Amanda’s eyes seemed to light up. It was nauseating. “Oh, just-- doing what I can to help!” 

Michael lit a cigarette, and didn’t seem to notice. His hands were shaking. After the first puff, smoke clouding the air, he finally smiled. “I appreciate the kind words, Dick.”

He coughed. “It’s Richard.”

“No, yeah, I heard ya the first time."

Amanda sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes frantic in the face of Richard’s growing discomfort, but her attention was pulled as her sister called her name. She shot Michael a warning look, and shifted her attention to her other guests, her children, her gait long and leggy as she walked away. 

With her out of the picture, Trevor eyed Richard, watched the way his palms seemed to shift against the beer he was nursing. It wasn’t exactly his comfort zone, between Michael and Trevor staring him down. They weren’t school children or mothers trying to suck a better grade out of the teacher’s cock, that was for certain. 

“So,” began Michael, flicking the ash off his cigarette. “I see you got a kid, but no ring. You divorced?”

“That’s, um, kind of personal.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re in my personal home, gettin’ all chummy with my own personal wife and personal kids. I think we’ve reached that level of transparency, bud.”

“Come on, brother, what’s with the twenty questions!” said Trevor. He reached over to slap Richard on the shoulder, a touch too rough. It startled him, the man jumping under his touch. He gave him a good, manly shake. “Let the poor bastard live, will ya? Don’t listen to him, Dick-- our Mikey’s got a real stick up his ass.”

It had been only a finger in there, really, but he wasn’t going to tell his new pal Dick about that. Or the heavenly way Michael had looked looking at him. No, that was his-- he hoarded those little bits and pieces away for himself. It was all he got, these days.

“Hey, I was just making conversation,” said Michael, “You don’t have to tell me nothin-- especially since you’re still sore about it.”

Trevor watched the shift of emotions across Richard’s face. He seemed to relax a little, finding an unlikely ally, even as Michael laid down another challenge. This, _this_ was how it was supposed to be-- Mike and Trevor working the crowd, bad cop and worse cop. It was so easy to fall back into these roles, if Michael would just fucking embrace it.

“I’m not, uh-- well, I suppose there’s no shame in admitting I’m divorced, yes.” The admission seemed to instill some kind of pride in Richard. It was almost pitiful. These types were the kind that Trevor loathed the most. Quitters. He was barely a man-- a pathetic, poor weakling that anyone worth their salt would ever respect, and he at least ought to be embarrassed about it, for fuck’s sake. 

Michael clicked his tongue. “Sorry to hear that, man.”

“Ah-- thanks.”

“So what happened? She fuck some other guy with a bigger degree? Burn through your meagre teacher’s salary and bail on ya?” goaded Trevor. “Elope with a hotter, younger student?”

“Nothing so, uh-- _dramatic_ as that. And I teach third grade so, certainly not the latter,” said Richard, rolling the beer in his hand, nervously. After a moment, he crossed his arms, giving a half-hearted shrug. “We just grew apart. It happens.”

He watched Michael nod sagely, like he knew what the fuck this asshole was even talking about. Just because he didn’t work for his relationship didn’t mean that it applied to everyone else. Stupid fucking assumption to make. Trevor’s mouth tasted sour, and he scowled deeply, his beer bottle feeling suddenly too warm and too heavy in his hand. He wanted to throw it right into Professor Dick’s knowing fucking face. 

He restrained himself, barely, instead looking to where another guy stepped up to the drink table. He was big, bigger than either him or Michael, which was a feat in itself, and he carried himself like he knew it too. Clean cut but tattooed, older than they were, he was blond and handsome. His hands were more like mitts as he bent down to open the cooler. Michael took another drag from his cigarette, and Trevor watched him watch the newcomer. 

“Any of you boys want a cold one?” the man asked, unearthing a sweating bottle from the ice. He smiled in a friendly manner, but it wasn’t an act of submission. He was asserting himself, getting a feel for the pecking order. 

Michael extended a hand, fingers spread. Of course he’d be trying to get loaded. The man passed him one, and Richard stepped back, allowing him into the fold. Trevor fidgeted as Michael cracked his beer, kept looking towards the guy, like his attention had been entirely redirected in a short amount of time. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.

“I’m Kevin,” he said, with a half-hearted wave of his bottle. “Katie’s boyfriend.”

“You’re Katie’s man?” Michael whistled, long and low. “Gotta say, bud, you’re not what I expected at all.”

“You gotta be Michael, then.” Kevin grinned. “You’re not what I expected at all, either.”

The way they were looking at each other made Trevor want to be sick. Like star-crossed fucking lovers or something. 

He noisily cleared his throat. “Great! Everyone went in with low expectations.” He elbowed Richard a little too hard to be friendly in the arm. “See, Dick, do the same and one day, _just maybe_ you’ll have a shot in the dark at a second ex-wife rapin’ your bank account in the divorce proceedings.”

“H-hey, now.”

“Don’t mind my buddy Trevor,” said Michael, giving him a sidelong look. The meaning was clear. _Behave_. It made him feel like a stupid kid, again, being chided by his mother. She would’ve slapped him of course, and at least for now, Michael only stilled his hand. “He’s about as well-socialized as that spastic fuckin’ terrier next door.”

Kevin glanced at Trevor, but his attention was quickly refocused on Michael, who sucked the end of his cigarette down to the filter, before turning to ash it in a tray on the drink table. He immediately went for another, his hands decidedly steadier as he flicked his lighter. 

He offered the pack to Kevin, which he accepted. Michael even lit his cigarette for him, his eyes sparkling in that way he got when he saw a fat wad of cash, a nice pair of tits. Trevor wanted to kill the both of them.

“So Katie, huh?” Michael said, tucking his smokes back into his jacket.

He nodded, broad chin jutting out as he scratched at it. “She’s a good girl. Well, _now_ she is, anyway.”

“So what, you straightened her out?” Michael made a gesture like a back hand, and they both laughed.

“Nah, she straightened herself out. I lucked out, got in at the right time. She’s spitfire, though-- I’m sure you know, you married her sister.”

“Fuckin’ A right I do. Mandy can be a real gentle touch when she gets on the warpath. Always gotta get what she wants.” They smirked at each other like they were in on some secret. “Women. You know how it is.”

Kevin chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, I do.” His bright, intense eyes slid over to Trevor, and the way he looked at him set him on edge. He was evaluating every little detail the same way he’d seen Michael do so many times. He didn’t appreciate it from someone who wasn’t Michael. “What’s your story, anyway?”

“My story? The fuck you mean by that, ‘my story.’”

He gestured towards Trevor’s neck. “What’s goin’ on here?”

“Meaning?” Trevor asked, dryly.

“The marks?”

Michael went very still, like he’d only just noticed the bruises he’d left. Or maybe he just always expected them to be there, a permanent stain the exact shape of his hand he’d left on Trevor’s body and soul. 

Trevor’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t see how that’s any of your business, man.”

Richard, the bastard, smiled knowingly behind the mouth of his beer. Some fucking ally. “And here I thought we were getting all personal.”

“You don’t want to hear what kind of shit he gets up to,” said Michael. “Trust me.”

Kevin was looking at him with an illegible expression, and it pissed him off to no end. He took a drag off the cigarette, the one that didn’t belong to him. “No, I really do.”

Trevor threw his hands out grandiosely. “What, a guy can’t go for a good choke and stroke now and then? Jesus Christ, is your sex life really that fucking bland that you gotta project that shit onto me? I’m sure since _darling Katie_ ‘straightened out’ and she won’t let you stick it in her ass anymore, you gotta live vicariously through the cocks of others, but buddy, don’t you fucking judge me for goin’ out and getting what I _want_.”

It pissed him off even more when Kevin didn’t react. He seemed unflappable, just looking at him, turning the cigarette Michael had given him in his fingers. He wanted to shove that cigarette into his eyeball. “I’m not judging. Those bruises are pretty obvious-- cause for concern, what with all these kids around.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” barked Trevor.

“T,” said Michael, in that warning tone. Richard seemed to be getting tense, the pussy. He’d probably never been around real men before, sitting pretty in his sweater vest with his fucking lesson plan getting cuckholded by his ex-wife.

“Don’t you ‘T’ me,” he spat. He turned on Kevin, his blood pressure rising. “What are you trying to say? Huh?”

“I think you need to calm down, buddy,” said Kevin.

He grit his teeth. “‘Calm down.’ You think I should _calm down_? Well I think you should--”

“Trevor,” said Michael, more firmly. He put a hand on the back of his neck, cigarette between his fingers. Like a kitten being scruffed, Trevor felt instantly calmer. Eyes closed, he sucked in a deep breath, the scent of his signature Redwood pungent and soothing. “C’mon-- cool it.”

The hand slipped to his shoulder, gave him a rough pat, before dropping. Trevor pulled back into himself. _Behave_. Michael took another pull on his beer, while Richard awkwardly coughed into his hand.

“S-so, Michael,” said Richard, “I don’t think Amanda ever told me what it was that you did for work.”

“Contracter.”

“Ah. Okay. Whereabouts?”

“Here and there-- wherever the money takes me, you know how it is. I’m away a lot, but it pays good.” He shrugged like the fat, hapless idiot he was. Or was pretending to be, anyway, dulling all of his sharp edges for the benefit of these strangers. “Can’t complain.”

“And you?” Kevin asked, looking to him. “What do you do?” Trevor felt like he was being interrogated, and even though anger was the easiest thing to reach, all it was going to do was earn him Michael’s derision. So, he played along.

He grinned at Michael, punched his shoulder just hard enough that Michael grunted, reaching for his arm. “I work with Mikey, here, do all kinds of shit for him! Have for, Jesus, what, over ten years now?”

“God, has it been that fuckin’ long I’ve been stuck with your ass, T?” Michael’s eyes crinkled around the corners, almost fondly. Almost like he was in pain. Trevor’s heart certainly did not flutter. “Time flies, don’t it.”

“Sure does, brother.”

Looking at Michael like that, it was like the scenery just seemed to melt away, it was just the two of them again. He could practically see the memories unraveling in Michael’s mind, further and further until the smile had faded somewhat. It was soon replaced by that look Michael often got when he went a little too far into himself. He didn’t like it, but it was better than him making eyes at fucking Kevin, or Amanda, or looking at anyone other than him. He’d had Michael’s cock in his mouth only hours ago, sure, but Michael didn’t look at him much _that way_ anymore.

Kevin chuckled, his low voice startling Trevor out of his almost trancelike state. “Should we leave you boys alone for a few minutes?”

“And here I thought you might wanna watch,” Michael said, jovially. “You must be a comedian, what with your hilarious fuckin’ jokes, Kev.”

‘Kev.’ So familiar, already. Michael just knew how to shapeshift into whatever role he needed to play that day. The heterosexual jock. The mediocre husband. The neglectful father. The man who’d kissed him so sweetly, who put a gun to his head. Trevor tongued the inside of his teeth, held his words in until it hurt.

“My job, you need a sense of humor. Things can get pretty grim, otherwise.”

“Oh yeah?” said Richard, desperately clawing his way back into the conversation. “Why’s that?”

Kevin hooked a finger into his belt, squared off his stance. “Don’t know if you’ve been following that thing out near VC...”

Michael’s eyes flicked towards Trevor. Trevor hid his grin.

“Jesus, yeah I heard a little, on the news,” Richard continued, “I can’t believe it, something like that happening around here. Never would’ve thought.”

He couldn’t help it. Hearing these men, talking about him like the fucking boogeyman, not knowing who they were fucking talking to. “Something like what?” Trevor asked. “Can’t just leave it hanging like that, bro.”

“You didn’t hear?” asked Richard, almost excited. Like he’d almost been dying to talk about it, despite his put-upon fear. Everybody loved a scandal. “About the--”

“Harvey Miller.” Kevin killed his cigarette, looking over his shoulder, making sure none of the kids were within earshot. “A few of our boys answered a call, found the guy all cut up-- some psycho hacked him up into pieces, left parts of him lying along the highway. Married man, too. A real shame.”

“Your ‘boys?’” said Michael, his voice a little less friendly. His cigarette sported an impressive amount of ash, and he didn’t tap it, like he’d forgotten about it entirely.

“Yeah, I work outta Wayfield county. Trying to get transferred to be closer to Katie, but with this, now… we’ll see.”

Trevor laughed. “Well, if it ain’t one of Wayfield’s finest in our midst!” He extended his beer to the group. “Cheers to our boys in blue!”

“You’re a cop,” Michael deadpanned. 

Kevin clinked his beer against Trevor’s, then Richard’s. He extended his to Michael, and belatedly, Michael tapped the bottle with his own, throwing it back with Kevin in tandem. His eyes wandered over his drink, and Trevor watched him scan the clusters of people in his backyard for his wife. He couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. He loved watching Michael work.

“So you, uh-- packing?” Richard asked, with a dogged sort of excitement. This was probably the most fucking interesting thing that’d ever happened in his pathetic little life. He seemed like the type of guy who felt guilty just seeing a police car rolling by, buckled his seatbelt with religious conviction every time. 

“Always am. You can never be too prepared.” He motioned with his beer bottle. “But I’m off duty, for now at least.”

“Yeah, Dick, you can relax for now!” Trevor said, jostling him. “Kevin the cop ain’t gonna arrest you for molesting your little school kiddies when he’s gettin’ his drink on! What kind of grown man wants to hang out with third graders all fuckin’ day anyway?”

“Excuse me? That’s inappropriate, I don’t--”

“Jesus, man, you’re more sensitive than a teenage fucking girl. I’m just fucking with you!”

“Well, I don’t think it’s very funny.” He looked to the others. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He threw Trevor’s hand off his shoulder and quietly stepped out of their circle, rejoining the rest of the party. Pussy.

“Kinda edgy jokes, there, man.”

“That a problem for ya, Kev?” said Trevor, “I got too much edge?”

“Don’t know-- you gonna make it a problem?”

Trevor laughed. “Guess we’ll have to see where the night takes us, cowboy.”

Michael still wasn’t speaking. His cigarette had long died in his fingers, and he flicked it away. Trevor smoothed the look off his face, followed his line of sight to where he’d caught Amanda’s eye. She was packing plastic wrapped hot dogs and buns out towards the barbeque, looking flustered. Jimmy trailed after her, stumbling, face hidden down in a handheld game.

“‘Mand, hey!” 

He waved her over, and Amanda huffed, nearly throwing her bounty down. She nudged Jimmy away from her heels as she approached. He blinked up at his mother at her rebuke, before Trevor gave him a little wave, the boy coming to stand next to him instead. 

“Still into those games, eh, kid?” Trevor asked him. Jimmy barely looked up, eyes shadowed from the ballcap he wore. Amanda had always babied him, kept him wrapped up in so many layers to shield him from the sunshine. “Which one ya playing?”

“ _Monster Master_ ,” he said, his thumbs working away at the buttons. “You catch monsters, enslave them and train them to fight other monsters-- to the _death_.”

“Hmm. Some Japanese shit?”

Jimmy shrugged. 

“Sounds violent.”

“ _Super violent_ , it’s really cool, you can--”

“Amanda,” said Michael, over his son. Jimmy sighed as his father gestured to Kevin. “Did Katie happen to tell you how she met Kevin over here?”

“I don’t think _I_ told you, actually,” said Kevin.

Amanda frowned in confusion, looking to Kevin. “Uh-- she said she ran into some trouble, and you helped her out? Sounds like my sister, alright.”

“Now were you on or off duty when that happened, Kev?” Michael said, flatly, holding Amanda’s gaze as he said so. 

Trevor almost lost it. Amanda’s brows steadily rose up to her hairline as she processed what her husband had said to her. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, her eyes flicking to him and back to Michael frantically, before she fixed a perfect smile on her face. 

“O-oh!” she said, through clenched teeth. “Katie, you little--”

“Now, now,” said Kevin, motioning with a placating hand. “She ain’t in any legal trouble, if that’s what you’re thinking. She was honest with me about that stuff. Anyway, when we met, I wasn’t working-- she was walking home late at night in a bad part of town. I was on the way to meet some buddies at the bar, drove by and saw some guys hassling her. I intervened and gave her a ride home, we got to chatting, you know… never made it to the bar.” A heartsick look crossed his bullshit, all-American face. “Katie, man-- she’s something else.”

“Oh yeah! Katie’s real great. Honest, forthcoming, _intelligent_ ,” said Michael. “Just like her sister, my beloved wife.”

He had to give her credit-- Amanda was incredibly talented at not rising to Michael’s bait. Her lips twitched only slightly. Her nails were sharp points where they dug into her palms at her side, and she took a deep breath. 

“Michael,” she said, a little too sharply. “Go get the barbecue started.”

Trevor positively crowed. “Yes, Mikey! The barbecue! Where the men are separated from the boys! Get some meat and char the absolute shit out of it-- you’re real good at that.”

“Christ,” Michael muttered. He slammed his half-empty beer on the table, already starting to move, bumping into Jimmy as he stepped forward. Had to be feeling the beers on an empty stomach, at least. “Watch it, Jim.”

He didn’t look up. “Sorry, dad.” 

Michael barely acknowledged him, just thundered off towards the grill. It was like a fucking sitcom, all of it. Watching Michael’s little domestic fantasy fall out from under his feet was all Trevor could’ve ever asked for. Happy fuckin’ birthday indeed.

“Can I help with anything, Amanda?” Kevin asked, mildly.

“No.” She smoothed her temper down, that bland smile plastered on her face. “I’ll get Katie to-- you-- you just relax.” She looked at Trevor as she said it, her eyes quickly dipping down to her son. “Jimmy, leave the adults alone and go play with the other kids.”

She nudged him by the shoulder, Jimmy trailing behind dejectedly, like there was a little dark cloud that had descended over the Townley mother and father unit. Trevor stood there with Kevin the cop, killed the warm dregs of his beer, and released a loud belch.

“Great party, huh,” Trevor said, laughing. 

Kevin did not laugh.

* * *

“A cop! You’re fucking a cop!?”

Katie dramatically slammed down the stack of paper plates she was holding, although to ill effect, given their disposable and lightweight nature. She glowered at Amanda from across the kitchen island, where she’d cornered her sister to demand explanation. Dragging her away from the party to unleash her rage had seemed a sight better than doing it in front of everyone. She was half-tempted to let Trevor loose on her, at this point.

“I’m not just fucking him, ‘Mand! I love him!”

“You said that about the last guy, too, until you found out he was married with three kids!”

“He never told me he was married!” 

“It didn’t occur to you to _ask?_ I’m not sure if you’re having a goddamn mental lapse, or if all the blow you’ve done has burnt permanent holes in your brain, but _think!_ For once in your life, Katie, think!”

“This is different!” she pleaded. “I wanted you to like him so badly, and I knew if I told you he was a cop you wouldn’t let me bring him with me! It’s Tracey’s birthday, not some skeevy bar crawl, why is it such a big deal!”

Amanda gave a withering sigh. She reached for her trusty wine glass. She’d already drank the expensive stuff, only the cheap box wine she’d bought for the other guests remaining, but it’d fucking do. She wasn’t even tipsy yet, really, she could afford to have another glass.

“Sis, please,” Katie pleaded, giving her those big, wet eyes that had worked so well when they were younger. “I know I should’ve said something but-- but I don’t know what your deal is! He’s a good man, you should be happy for me… you always said I should get my act together.”

She’d had to fight with Michael for money to send her to rehab, after all. Had to watch her fall into the same trap, over and over, because she couldn’t figure out how to cut off their mother. Michael, and then Tracey and Jimmy, had made it easy for Amanda to crawl out from under her thumb, but her sister didn’t have that luxury. She didn’t have anyone but her big sister, and then she’d up and moved her life away. 

“The big deal,” Amanda said, “is that you lied to me again.”

The energy just seemed to sag out of Katie. They’d been through this a hundred times before. She looked down to her expensive but worn-in shoes, her mouth contorting into a cruel shape.

“Y’know, sis, I don’t know how it is that you’re so superior-- you never _did_ tell me what it is exactly that Michael does.”

“Katie,” Amanda warned. She reached for the box of wine, tugging it off of the counter enough to pour herself a glass. “Now is not the time.”

“Don’t ‘Katie’ me!” She stomped a foot, much like Tracey did when she was throwing a fit. “Maybe you need to take a fucking look in the mirror! He’s gotta be a dealer, or a trafficker, or-- or something! You never _tell me_ anything!”

“I can’t do this with you right now.”

“No! We’re doing this! That weird guy he brought-- Amanda, you let that freak hang around Tracey and Jimmy? Now I understand why you never let me meet him before.”

She swallowed a mouthful of her wine, felt it burn all the way down her throat. She couldn’t believe she was in a position where she’d have to defend Trevor Philips. Still, maintaining the careful construction of their life, keeping their family safe and whole was more important than her feelings. Even if she knew many of them were justified.

“Ugh, the way he was all over Tracey grosses me out,” Katie continued. “The way she ran right over to him-- you know what grooming is, right? My counselor taught me about it, and--”

Of course she knew what it was. She’d learned it first-hand from her mother, her father, the strange men in her childhood bedroom that she tried not to think about most of the time. 

Amanda stared hard at the refrigerator, the fridge magnets and photos posted there. There was one of her and Michael, an old sun-faded 3x4, the two of them grinning at the camera holding either of Tracey’s hands, lost in the depths of her snow suit. She’d been so young then. She was still young, at thirteen. She hadn’t realized quite how young that had been until she’d had a daughter of her own. 

“--are you even listening? I’m trying to educate you here!”

“Katie,” she said, “I know you’re just trying to look out for me, but you don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re talking about.”

She balked. “You really trust that creep with your kids?”

No, she didn’t. Sometimes, late at night laying there with Michael’s back facing her, she wondered if Trevor was going to kill her. Try to take her children as his own. Take her husband. She even had ideas of how he’d do it. He’d use his hands. 

She wasn’t about to tell Katie that, though.

“I’ve known him for over ten years,” she said, carefully. “If I thought he was going to do anything… _inappropriate_ to them, don’t you think I would’ve done something about it before now? You think I’d just sit back and let that happen to my children? After everything we went through. Really?”

Still, she could never keep him away completely. She had tried to stop it. Multiple times. But Michael, her dear, stupid, lonely fuck of a husband, never fucking listened to her, made his weakness her problem. He kept Trevor at a comfortable arm’s length. The greater the distance, the more he dug his fingers in.

Katie didn’t answer her, just glared a hole in the wall, stubborn and prideful. Amanda sighed, setting a hand on her hip as she leaned hard on her leg. “I’m sorry for being a bitch,” she said, “I know you’ve been trying really hard, Katie.”

“Sis, thank--”

“--but I just don’t understand why you would do something like this to me right now!” She gestured with her wine, red liquid sloshing over the edge. “Do you know how much effort I put into this party? Nobody fucking cares! Nobody cares about how I feel!”

“Well excuse me for not making Tracey’s birthday party all about you!” Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears, caught in her thick mascara. Even red-faced and teary-eyed, she was still prettier.

“Nobody says _please_ or _thank you_ , they only want me when they need something! Nobody-- and now I have to deal with Michael finding out about your boyfriend _Kevin_ the _cop_ before I did?” She’d done her homework on all the other guests, assessed them. How she’d managed to overlook this-- she only had herself to blame. “God, I’m never going to hear the end of it! He’s going to kill me.”

She felt lightheaded all of a sudden. She took another gulp of her wine.

“At least then he might not find about _Rich_ ,” Katie muttered under her breath. 

Amanda was ready to fire back, but settled for a frosty glare as the sliding door opened, one of the neighbor women poking her head inside. She took a calming breath, looked over. “Oh, hi! Julia!”

“Hey ladies, just had to pee-- beer goes right through me, I’m sure you know how it is,” she said, cheerfully, shutting the door halfway gently behind her. She set her drink down on the kitchen table. “Bathroom is…?”

“Over there.”

“Thanks!”

Amanda turned back to Katie as she listened to Julia’s soft footsteps, and the subsequent door closing, the porcelain click of the toilet seat lowered down. She constrained her voice. 

“Don’t you dare--”

“It’s like you don’t think I wouldn’t pick up on the outfit, or the hair, or the way you go all-- _demure_ around him. Michael’s an idiot, frankly, for not noticing. Or is your marriage really that far down the drain that he really doesn’t notice you at all anymore?”

Amanda sniffed. She went quiet. She set her wine glass down on the counter. Gently.

Katie’s face fell. “Oh no. I didn’t mean to say that. Amanda, I didn’t mean--”

The door handle clicked and clacked, the lock never worked right. Julia peered her dark head out, turning the light off after her. Her expression seemed concerned. She did always wear her emotions on her sleeve. 

“Can I help in anyway, Amanda?” she asked, mildly. “Parties can be stressful, especially with all the kids running around.”

“Aww, thanks, Julie. You’re too sweet.” She smiled, and it was only a little forced. Julia had the kind of life she wished she could be content with. She seemed so happy with so little. “We’re okay for now, I think.”

“Okay! Just let me know,” she said, retaking her cup. She wiggled her fingers. “See you back outside.” She turned out, the door open behind her.

Amanda turned on her sister. “You should go with her.”

“But--”

“Just leave me alone, Katie, okay? Just go away. Please.”

For all her cruelty, being dismissed by her sister seemed to weather her the most. Katie’s head drooped, her long hair sagging forward, and she nodded. She picked up the paper plates, the roll of paper towels, and wordlessly walked out the door.

Amanda covered her face with her hand, and released a small sob. It was all she allowed for herself. She had to get through this, for the sake of her kids. 

She swallowed her stray feelings, looking out the front window. It was such a lovely afternoon. There were more cars than usual, a white van parked outside, their backyard neighbour walking his terrier on a leash, poorly. He could never quite control that thing.

Her hand moved to pick up her wine, but she jolted sharply when someone touched her shoulder, knocking the glass over on the counter. She managed to catch it before it shattered, but not before managing to spill wine all over the counter. “Shit!”

“Oh, shoot, sorry!” said Richard, diving in to try to block the overflow with his hands. She hadn’t even realized he’d come in. Amanda looked around frantically for the paper towels, realizing her sister had taken them. She grabbed a dish cloth instead, mopping up the wine. He chuckled, standing back to give her room. “I swear, I wasn’t trying to make more work for you.”

“It’s fine,” she said, exhaling noisily. Better cleaning up red wine than blood, anyway. She rung out the dish cloth, hung it onto the tap. It slouched off into the basin, and she went to pour herself a fresh glass.

“H-hey, so,” he said, thumbing at his goatee. He leaned in closer to her. “Thanks for inviting me-- and Ty, too. Thanks again. Even if this didn’t go the way we-- if it didn’t-- I wanted to talk about...”

She looked at him purposefully. The words died in his throat. Amanda gulped at her wine, pulling her mouth away from her glass with a smack of her glossed lips. “Can I get you something?” 

Her eyes slid cautiously towards the sliding door, where Michael stood only feet away outside, stone faced, handling the grill like it had personally offended him.

Richard looked somewhat crestfallen. His hand reached out, but he stopped himself. “Mandy, I--” He looked into her eyes, the way her husband used to. “You look beautiful. I just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you, Rich.” 

She smiled. Richard was so nice to her. He noticed her. He’d said he’d wait for her. It was a nice daydream.

Self-conscious, he rubbed the back of his neck, turned to follow her line of sight. His gentle face crinkled with a frown. “So. That’s… him.”

“That’s him,” she repeated. Like two words explained everything. Michael, her husband, a man so empty and unknown to her that his entire existence could be summed up in two small words.

* * *

“Smells good.”

Michael shot him a look and Trevor laughed, crossing his arms as he watched Michael flip the hamburgers on the grill. It was new and still bore clean, shining aluminum, not like the old rusted charcoal piece of shit they had back in the last trailer. It looked relatively unused.

“Gotta say, it’s bringing back some pretty recent memories. I’m getting a little nostalgic here.”

He flicked the dials to lower the temperature, not speaking for a moment. “You think you’re really fucking funny, T, don’t you. Hilarious.”

“Please, M, you think I should act all sullen and moody, like you? Like that’s any less generally fuckin’ suspicious?” 

He glanced over his shoulder, but Kevin the cop had moved on, standing in another group of couples with his arm around Katie. She seemed like she was far away, had that look in her eyes. It piqued Trevor’s interest. He recognized that kind of hunger too well.

Katie must’ve sensed him watching her, because she turned her head, catching his eye. He smiled and waved, all friendly. Her head spun around so fast she slapped Kevin with her thick head of hair. 

Michael grabbed at him, drawing his attention back. “What the fuck-- don’t stare at her!”

“Jesus, M, just because you married the old, dried up sister doesn’t mean you can get all jealous and territorial about the other one!” 

He sucked his teeth, leaning in close. He could smell Michael’s sweat, the meat on the grill, cigarettes on his breath. God, if they could just get away from the party for a moment, the things he would do to him. He’d settle for setting him off, for now, Michael’s grip on his leash always got tighter when he thought he’d stray.

“That’s not--” He went almost red in the face, motioning with the flipper like he was trying to flatten down his temper. “We’ve got bigger fuckin’ problems right now, T.”

“Oh yeah! What to do about the little piggy in our midst. What do you say, Mike, cut our losses and throw his fat carcass on the grill too?”

Michael glowered at him. Trevor chuckled. 

“Too soon?”

“‘Never’ would be too soon.”

“Oh, come on! He’s just a beat cop. Carryin’ the badge gives him an inflated sense of self, makes his hard four feel more like a soft eight-- he’s probably always fuckin’ looking for someone to stop and frisk for cheap thrills. Would you calm those sweet, perky tits already? He doesn’t know shit.”

“T, just-- fuck, you ain’t doin’ much to dissuade him from how generally fuckin’ dubious you are!”

“Well, _maybe_ if a certain someone hadn’t left me all banged up like a battered housewife!”

Michael exhaled very audibly, dropping the flipper onto a plate as he closed the barbecue lid, the meat sizzling and popping within. He stepped back, and his hands grasped for something. Trevor helpfully passed him a fresh beer, one Michael accepted without any of his usual feigned protestations. He knew his long-suffering friend far too well.

He watched Michael’s lips wrap around the mouth of the beer with interest. The bottle sweat condensation, dripping down his thick, square fingers, his eyes narrowing in the fading sunlight. God, he was beautiful. Trevor wanted to eat him alive.

“Anyway,” Michael said, running a hand over his mouth, “Try not to insinuate anyone’s a kiddie fucker for the rest of the night. Just-- don’t go outta your way to piss anyone off. I know that’s a real feat for you, but _try_.”

“It’s not my fault that our pal Dick can’t take a joke, M! You think he’d be used to being mocked for his unusually anachronistic interest in children by now, but no!” he said, throwing his hands out wide. “I’m not responsible for the weak emotional constitution of Mr. Schoolhouse Cock!”

Michael laughed. It was a genuine one, nasal and boyish.

Trevor wrapped an arm around his back, crowded in close. “You always did like my lamest fucking jokes, huh.”

“About as much as gettin’ kicked in the head, yeah.” Still, Michael leaned into him.

He jostled Michael’s shoulder, and they prodded at each other like a couple of kids on the playground for a moment. It was so hard not to touch him when he was this close. His interactions with Michael these days came in short sprints, rather than the ambling, languid pace the way it used to be. He wanted to put his hands all over him while he could. 

The sliding door nearby opened, then, and Michael pulled away like a jumpy prey animal, the way he always did. Amanda strode through, glancing to her husband. The aforementioned Richard came after her, neatly closing the door. He avoided Michael and Trevor as he rejoined the others, fitting neatly into the herd with Kevin and Katie.

“Everything going okay here?” Amanda asked, stepping towards Michael. She very deliberately positioned him between Trevor and herself, like she didn’t want to even acknowledge he was right fucking there.

“I’ve got everything under control,” said Michael. He took another pull on his beer, Amanda’s face darkening. He wasn’t drunk yet, but the speed he was going, well. “What did your sister have to say ‘bout her little stunt?”

“You know her, she’s just--”

“Thirsty for that older, authoritative male approval?” interjected Trevor. “Daddy issues make the world go ‘round!”

“Nobody asked you, Trevor,” Amanda said. She opened her mouth to continue when her attention was pulled downward, where Tracey had thrown herself at her mother, colliding with her full-force. “ _Tracey_ , be careful!”

She rolled her eyes in that theatrical way only a young girl could, much to Amanda’s dismay. Trevor grinned fiercely at her open act of disobedience, instantly wicking her attention away, as she skipped over to his side. She grabbed one of his rough hands with her own, pulling on his arm. “Uncle T, are you having fun at my party?”

“Why, yes, ma’am! Especially now that I’ve finally ensnared the attention of the most charming and resourceful birthday girl in the entire world.” 

Tracey ducked her head, going pink around the cheeks. She wrapped her arms around his waist, and he held her in close. She was so fucking good, so pure, that he almost felt guilty touching her with his wayward hands. It was like holding a little piece of Michael that had been untainted by the world. He would do anything to keep her that way, ignorant and honest, forever.

“Tracey, honey, go hang out with your friends,” Amanda said, staring at him. Like he was doing something wrong just fucking talking to her, just holding her. “The adults are talking.”

“But it’s my birthday! And I’m, like, a teenager now!” she whined. She looked to her father. “Dad!”

Michael shrugged, looked to Amanda. “It _is_ her birthday.”

“Is it, Michael?” Amanda said.

She glared at him, held his eyes like she wanted to really rip into him further. He’d kill to see that. Amanda was careful not to do it in front of him, given that he loved to get right in the middle of it, press her buttons. She just made it so fucking easy sometimes.

With her parents caught up in one another, Trevor poked at Tracey’s sides, producing giggles as she wormed away from his hands. “ _Doooon’t!”_

“Can’t help it, Tracey. It’s the rules. Sorry, I don’t make ‘em, I just enforce ‘em.”

She squealed, pulling her shoulders up as his fingers dug into her neck, the ticklish spots well-known from when she’d been smaller. Amanda had hated it then, the easy way she’d favored him, and the look she was giving him now-- he didn’t fucking like it. Tracey grabbed his arms, stilling his hands, still breathing heavy with laughter. 

“Uncle T, wanna see my new room? Come on!”

“No,” said both of her parents, simultaneously. Trevor grit his teeth. Amanda’s eyes darted away.

Tracey looked up at them with her big baby blues, so much like her father. “Why not?”

Michael swallowed thickly, then cleared his throat. He didn’t look at Trevor. “Keep the party outside, baby. I don’t want everyone trackin’ dirt in the house.”

The fucking liar. Like he thought he was going to do something _wrong_ to his child, when Michael had been the one holding a gun to his head only hours before. Michael was the sick fuck. He’d sooner die than let something happen to her. He’d sooner kill.

It must’ve shown on his face. Sweat beaded at Michael’s hairline. He fumbled. “Trace--”

“Ugh, you guys are, like, so freakin’ lame!” said Tracey, exasperated. She looked up to Trevor, tugging his elbow. “Let’s at least go check out the present table, then!”

“If the lady insists!”

She linked her arm with his, and off they went. Fuck Michael, fuck Amanda, fuck their judgement. It was Tracey Townley’s birthday and he was going to give her all of the attention Michael so callously rejected. He was going to make sure she felt like a fucking star.

Tracey bounced on her heels as she stood before the present table. He stood back, watching her run her fingers over the bows and shiny wrapping paper, her eyes lit up with excitement. “Why do I have to wait so long to open them! It’s so stupid, it’s, like, _my_ birthday.”

He watched her pout, instantly reminded of Michael. God, she was so much like Michael. She talked just to hear the sound of her own voice, self-absorbed in his same endearing way. That magnetic quality could get her into trouble one day, if she wasn’t careful. The world wasn’t made with girls like her in mind.

“What’s with the tiara?” he asked, plucking it off the top of the mound. “You should be wearing this, given your royal birthday status and all.”

“Mom gave it to me this morning, but I don’t know. It seems kind of--” She pulled a face, “--baby-ish. I haven’t played dress-up in years.”

He placed it atop his head instead, sparkling cheap plastic that it was, spread his hands out demonstratively. “How’s it look?”

Tracey giggled. “You look like a girl.”

“Nothing wrong with looking like a girl! _You_ look like a girl,” he said, leaning his hip up against the table. He picked up a small box, gave it a good shake. “I think this one’s rocks, kid.”

“Hey! No, it isn’t!” She snatched the present out of his hands, the smile on her face going dim. She shifted it in her hands, looking up at him. “I-- I really missed you, T.”

“Yeah, I missed you too, killer. A lot.” He could barely stand to look at her, the way her eyes went soft. It made him want to throttle Michael for keeping him away, made him want to slit Amanda’s gut open for ever having her in the first place, for-- he shook his head, like it would get the thoughts out. _Behave_. “This, uh-- this big party is what you wanted, right?”

Tracey looked down at the gift and gave a pronounced shrug. “It’s not, like-- bad.”

“But?”

Again, she shrugged. “Dunno. There’s a lot of people here. Mom thought it was a good idea, I guess.”

“Your mom doin’ okay these days?” he asked. He didn’t care about Amanda, didn’t give a fuck about her, but her marriage-- that was useful information.

“She--” Tracey’s face screwed into a confused expression. She wiped a hand over her face, the way her father did when he was trying to hold his words in. Trevor crouched down to look at her, face to face. 

“Trace?”

She looked up at him, too good, too understanding for a girl her age. Too old in the eyes. She was starting to get acne along her hairline, her pink shirt filled out in places it hadn’t the last time he’d seen her. She was growing up. He remembered what it was like to be that age, not understanding his body, his mind-- not that he ever could. Not understanding the way other people saw him. The way his mother saw him, her worn hands and her soft, harsh mouth.

Tracey pursed her lips, her eyes striking straight through him. “When you and my dad are together, where do you go?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing over to where Amanda and Michael were still engaged in their quiet argument near the grill. “I think you should probably ask him.”

“But he’ll just lie.”

Trevor snorted. “You’re too fuckin’ smart for your own good.”

She discarded the gift back onto the table to grab his hands, tugging at him fiercely. “It’s so not fair that he still gets to see you and we don’t.”

“You should tell _him_ that.”

“I do! He never freaking listens to me, though.” 

“Sounds like your dad, alright.” He tugged her hands in his grip, made her hips sway like they were dancing. “And you can say fuck around me, darlin’. I won’t tell your lame ass parents, I promise.”

“He never _fucking_ listens to me,” she said. 

“That’s it.”

Her voice quivered, even as she kept a smile on her face. “Why does my dad suck so much?” 

It took every ounce of his self-control not to say what was on the tip of his tongue, that her dad didn’t _suck_ quite enough. That he was selfish. That he was gutless. That he didn’t know how to love someone in a way that didn’t hurt.

“I hate him,” Tracey said, quietly.

He looked into Tracey Townley’s eyes, and saw himself there. That same look he got when Michael would make another promise they both knew he couldn't keep. He pulled her in close. She didn’t even resist, the way her father did, the way _everyone_ did with him. She came to him easily. Softly, folding him into her arms. 

“He can’t help himself, Tracey,” he said, close to her ear. “He’s a fucking asshole-- but he’s trying. I _see_ him trying. One day, when you’re grown up, you can tell him to fuck off and you might even mean it, but he’s not gonna give up on you. You’re a good girl, and you’re doing your best, and he’s never gonna stop loving you no matter what you do. He’ll be there for you when you really need him. Or I’ll kill him.”

She sniffed, burying her face in his neck. “Thanks Uncle T.”

“Don’t mention it, kid. Especially to your dad-- I got a rep to maintain here.”

Tracey held him for awhile longer, before letting go, her small fingers still tangled with his own. He stood up to his full height, just looking at her. God, she was too good for this hell on earth. Michael didn’t deserve something as good as her.

“What are you doing?”

That fucking tone. His lip curled back, and Trevor turned, found Katie standing behind him on uneven ground. She stumbled, quickly righting herself, glaring daggers at him. 

“Hi Auntie,” said Tracey. “We were just--”

“Don’t _touch_ her.” Katie crossed past him, ripping Tracey’s hands out of his own. 

His empty hands formed into fists, clenching and unclenching at his sides. The slow curl of anger started at the base of his spine. He could feel it, like insects crawling up his backbone, digging their pincers in right to the nerves. He drew in a steadying breath, but it didn’t do much. 

Tracey yanked her arm out of her aunt’s hold. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Tracey--”

“Yeah, Kate,” said Trevor. “Why’re you acting so fuckin’ weird?”

“Why is _everyone_ acting so fucking weird?” Tracey said, exasperated.

“You don’t use that kind of language, little girl,” Katie snapped, pointing a finger in Tracey’s face. 

Tracey smacked the hand away, knocking Katie off-balance in her heels. She stumbled back, astonished that Tracey had lashed out. She was Michael’s daughter, after all. “You’re not my mom, you don’t get to tell me what to do! It’s my birthday!” 

“Do you want me to go tell Amanda how you were speaking to me?” 

“Oh yeah, go tattle-tale on the thirteen year old,” joked Trevor. “Earn those respect points with the big sis!”

Katie turned on him. “Fuck off!”

“So you’re allowed to say fuck and I’m not?” Tracey whined. “That’s, like, _so_ not fair!”

“Tracey-- enough! Get your skinny ass back over to your mom and dad,” Katie said, sharply. “I need a word with ‘Uncle T’, here. Alone.”

Tracey looked up at him and Trevor gave a slow smile, motioning with his hand. “It’s okay, kiddo. Go annoy your dad for me.”

She tucked her feet in tight together and snapped a salute, like he’d taught her to do so many years ago. Then, she whirled around in a hurricane of energy the way only a child or a tweaker could, and took off towards her father. 

That left him alone with Katie. He rolled his shoulders back, standing up to his full height. She took a step back, but glared at him with full intensity, even if her eyes seemed to float around in her head. Liquid courage. She was gonna fucking need it.

“Alright,” Trevor said, spreading his fingers out. “You had something to say to me?”

“I don’t trust you,” she spat. “I don’t understand why my sister or her useless husband let you have free rein with their kids-- especially Tracey.”

“What are you saying, Kate? Break it down for me, sweetheart.”

“You creep me the fuck out-- the way you’re all over her like that. I don’t like it.”

“Oh, so that’s what you think. Because I _care_ ,” he said, putting a hand to his chest, “that means I’m trying to bad touch my best friend’s kid, that’s what you fucking think?”

She eyed him uneasily. “Kevin told me what kind of fucked up things you were saying around the guys.”

“Because a man makes a joke suddenly he likes to fuck little kids? Jesus Christ, lady, maybe you’re the one with the sick mind, that you would even _go there_ based on some pretty circumstantial fuckin’ evidence.” He shook a finger at her, looking at her down his nose. “Maybe _you’re_ the one that’s fucked up.”

Her brows creased. Katie seemed unsure of herself, all of a sudden. Trevor stepped forward, closer towards her.

“You see, Katie, what _I’ve_ heard is that you and your sister didn’t have anyone looking out for you, the way you’re just trying to look out for our little Tracey. Your heart’s in the right place, I know. You didn’t have anyone _protecting_ you, the way a young, vulnerable girl that age needs. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Her lashes fluttered, her eyes getting that far away look. “You don’t know a goddamn thing.”

“There you go again, Katie! You assume that because I’m a man and because I _love_ Tracey like a daughter, and openly express that love for her, that I must be doing something _wrong_ \-- because that’s what you know. Now, doesn’t that say more about you than me?”

Katie didn’t say anything. He had his hooks in her. He just had to drag her down.

“I get it, I do. You’re trying to straighten your life out, Katie, surround yourself with safe, boring, _normal_ people. You’re trying to stay away from what you think are the wrong type of men, but what I _see_ is that even with all that effort, your big sis still ain’t much of a fan of your law-abiding new boyfriend, now is she?” Trevor asked, dryly.

“I--”

“Don’t you think you’re really just pissed off at your sister?” He smiled, in a way that could almost be friendly. “Our Mandy can be real cruel sometimes, I know.”

“She’s the one with the shitty husband with the shitty taste in friends, and I know for a fucking fact she didn’t want you here, and _still_ I’m the one who fucked up! God, nothing is ever fucking good enough for her!”

The slow realization of what she’d said dawned on her face, and Katie crossed her arms, like she was trying to protect herself from the truth of her words. She propped herself up against the present table, nudging one with her ass, her feet unsteady ahead of her. 

He turned, mirroring her stance, resting up against the table with her. He followed her line of sight, to where she was looking at Amanda, still wrapped up in her cold war with Michael at the barbecue. They worked around one another with a wide berth, but the guests looked at each other sidelong as they filled their plates, and Tracey remaining ignored by her parents as she stood on the fringe of their little stage. It was perfect.

Trevor leaned in closer. “Y’know, if she’s got such piss-poor judgment, I don’t really get why you care so much about what she thinks. You and I both know Michael ain’t some fuckin’ saint.”

“I’m sure he cheats on her. And he doesn’t pay attention to the kids, either, she always complains about it. I don’t think he cares about anything but himself.”

“You ain’t wrong about that. He’s a selfish fuck, that’s for sure. But why do you care?”

Katie looked down at the ground. “Well, I-- I want her to be happy, I guess.”

“Really.”

“Well, happy _enough_ that she doesn’t constantly feel the need to shit all over my life because she doesn’t want to deal with hers.”

“I know too well how that is. Misery sure loves company, don’t it.”

“I’m guessing you’re talking about Michael?” Katie asked. “You’re best friends, I thought?”

“Yes, he is my fat fuck of a best friend, and yes, he sure does love to make it pretty fuckin’ clear how he feels about my choices. Respectable, honest choices! I don’t try to fucking hide my feelings, I don’t _lie_ to myself about who I am!”

“So-- who are you, then?” Her eyes sparkled with intrigue, even as she tried to downplay it. “Let’s hear it.”

“I’m the man you call when you need to get shit done!” He slammed his fist into his open palm. “An honest, hard-working individual who’s got all my love to give, in a world full of fucking _liars_ who don’t know how to accept it!” He leaned into her, gesturing his hand in an arc as if painting a picture. “I’m a connoisseur of the low places in life-- anonymous sex, good drugs, a dose of healthy, _natural_ male aggression, and a pinch of fuckin’ _sincerity_! I don’t think I ask for much!”

Katie leaned away from him, although not far enough that he couldn’t still make out every pore on her face. “You’re-- you’re a weird guy, Trevor.”

“ _Weird?”_ He jutted his lower lip out, looked up at her with his most charming expression. “Come on. Is it the tiara?”

She fluttered her lashes. “Well...”

“What, not my colour? More of a topaz kind of guy.”

“Actually, it’s-- I--” She heaved a sigh, chewing at the edge of one manicured nail. She threw her hands down dramatically. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry for making assumptions.”

“Well, thank you.” He nodded. “I forgive you.”

Katie held uneasy eye contact with him for a moment, then smiled. She looked back down at her feet. 

Trevor waited. He crossed his ankles, leaned back. He knew how to play this game. He knew it too well. He just had to be patient.

“So,” she continued, her voice lowered, “good drugs, huh?”

“ _Great_ drugs.”

“Is that the real reason why my sister doesn’t want you around?”

“One of ‘em, sure.”

“You know, she’s just such a hypocrite. She used to pick up for me, for fuck’s sakes. The first time I ever even _did_ blow was at her baby shower.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, back up. Did _she_ do blow at her baby shower?” 

Katie hummed quietly, then shot him a look edgewise. “You’re not gonna tell Michael, are you?”

“That asshole’s so blind to what goes on she could slam H in front of him and he’d say, ‘Mandy? Dur-hur, why she’s at home with the kids!’”

She snorted. “He is kinda thick.”

“Through the gut, yeah.”

Her laugh was high and clear. It reminded him a lot of Amanda, when they were younger, she could be fun, and his jokes didn’t make her glower at him in revulsion. “Cheers to that.”

He looked down at her empty hands, his own. “Got no glasses to clink, sweetheart.”

“I don’t know if Kevin would like it, but I-- I could go get us more drinks.”

“Maybe, maybe.” He paused, clicking his tongue. “Unless... you’re in the mood for something a little stronger?” 

It was just an offer. Just putting it out there. He waited.

Katie looked up at him, her big, black-rimmed eyes. Her makeup was so perfect, like a mask over her features, hiding all of the uglier parts deeper down inside. He wanted to siphon that truth out of her, the honesty she’d so neatly wiped away to please her sister, her boyfriend so easily forgotten in lieu of someone _real_ , like him. 

“I don’t know,” she murmured. Her eyes flicked to Amanda, blank faced as she doled out plates to her guests, ever the perfect housewife. “I don’t think I should. I don’t-- I don’t do that anymore.”

“Tell you what,” he said, pushing himself off the table. “I’m gonna go take a piss. I’ll leave the door unlocked, y’know-- should you change your mind.”

Trevor made a grand gesture of tipping the tiara that still remained atop his head to her. Katie watched him with those big, searching eyes as he turned on his heel, sauntering off to the sliding door.

He was about to open the door to the house when fingers gripped down around his elbow, stopping him. He turned, ready to tell whoever it was to fuck off, but the words died in his throat. It was just Michael, sweating, giving him that look. Trevor ripped his arm away.

“The fuck’s that face for?” 

“Nothin’, man. What’s with that stupid crown?”

“Well, sometimes I like to feel beautiful, Mikey.”

Michael sighed, smoothing over a smile that threatened. “Where you goin’, T?”

“To take a fucking piss, Mikey. You wanna hold my dick for me or somethin’?”

“Jesus, no,” he said, putting his hands up in surrender. “Just making sure everything was okay, man.”

“I appreciate the concern, M, but I don’t need you up my ass every fucking second of every day.” He waved him away. “Fuck off, will ya.”

Michael’s mouth pressed into a flat line. He didn’t budge, even as Trevor turned away from him, heading through the door. It felt good to leave him like that, standing there alone. He hoped Michael felt as rejected as he did, every single moment of every single fucking day. He deserved it.

The Townley’s guest bathroom was small, well-lit, neatly folded soft blue hand towels hanging on the rack. Trevor made a point to piss all over the toilet seat and didn’t flush, slamming the lid down with gusto. He pawed around for a hand mirror, and upon finding one, reached into his pockets.

He sat down on the lidded toilet and started flicking one of his many baggies to settle the powder. A slow smile crawled across his face. It was a party, might as well keep things entertaining.

He waited. One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes.

Eventually, the handle turned, Katie stepping into the bathroom. She locked the door behind her.

“Ah, there she is!” exclaimed Trevor, practically leaping to his feet. He balanced the hand mirror flat in his palm like it was a platter at a fine dining restaurant he wouldn't be caught dead in. “Welcome to the champagne room, sweetheart. Let’s get the fuckin’ party started.”

She stared at the powder on the mirror, following it as he set it on the bathroom counter. He’d already cut it into two lines, had everything ready for her. Katie’s mouth was practically watering at the sight, and he had to calm himself down, keep himself from getting too excited. This was way too fucking easy.

“It’s just the one time. I won’t do much,” she said, mostly to herself. She looked to him for reassurance, and he nodded enthusiastically. “Kevin’s never even seen me high. He won’t be able to tell.”

“That’s right,” he said, egging her on. “Plus if Amanda’s gonna get pissed at anyone, it’ll be me. You know she’s just looking for a good excuse to go off.” He handed her a rolled up tenner. He saved the hundreds for Michael only.

“Yeah.”

Katie drew in a deep breath. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, before leaning forward with one nostril pinched. She sniffed down the first line quickly, making a pained sound as she pulled back. “Fuck, shit, that burns!”

He reached for her, ran a hand down her back in a way could’ve been soothing, if he were anyone else. “ _Relax_. Uncle T’ll take care of you.”

“God, what is that cut with, battery acid? Jesus _fuck_.”

“Just switch nostrils, you’ll be fine.”

She listened to him, pinching the other shut as she snorted another line. Her eyes clenched shut, watering, and she nudged a finger underneath to catch any mascara that threatened to run. He wanted to see her bleed black, wanted to see the beautiful mess hiding beneath that carefully constructed veneer. 

Katie sniffed, wavering on her feet. She kept her hand on her head. “I feel kinda-- weird.”

“C’mon, take a seat, honey,” he said, wrapping his fingers around her thin upper arms. He helped her over to the toilet, sitting her down on the lid. “Give it a minute, you’ll feel _great_.”

“Aren’t you gonna do any?”

“Do _lines_ at a kid’s birthday party? Come on, lady, are you for real?”

“You--” When she opened her eyes they were glassy. Her breath came in little gasps. “W-what did you give me?”

“Some good, strong ice laced with a little special K.” He reached back into his pockets, unearthing his kit. “Come on, Katie, you should know better to accept drugs from strange men!”

“You lied to me,” she mumbled, holding her head with shaking hands. 

“I never said it was coke. You just _assumed_. Y’know, you should really work on that, you do that a lot.”

He flipped open the little leather pouch he carried, pulled out a hypodermic, his shortened spoon. He liked this ritual. There was a process to it that felt oddly calming, knowing the rush he’d be getting at the end of it.

Trevor produced another baggie, one that he hadn’t laced. He was hardly so irresponsible as to trip on K at Tracey’s party. He turned on the tap, letting the water run in small trickle. The sound echoed in the small bathroom, drowning out Katie’s quiet crying behind him.

“Oh, God, why did I do this? Oh, God, oh why, why, why,” Katie mumbled, slouching further over onto her knees. “I’m so fucking stupid! I always do this!”

“Oh, don’t beat yourself up. You just like your drugs more than you like your dignity-- no shame in that.” 

He uncapped the needle with his teeth, setting it down on the counter, as he measured out water into the spoon. Then, he added enough meth that he’d feel good, keep things entertaining. He opened the cupboard under the sink in search of cotton balls, knocking boxes of tampons and bottles of shampoo onto the floor as he foraged. Retrieving his bounty, he stood.

“Now, you see what I’m doing here? Being _responsible_ ,” he said, ripping off a small piece of cotton to set in the spoon. The liquid soaked in easily, and he set the needle into it, pulling the plunger to fill the barrel. He looked over his shoulder at her and grinned. “When _I_ take drugs from a strange man, I make sure the strange man is _me_.”

“Y-you’re a psycho! M-my head is rushing, I feel sick, I feel--”

“Would you shut the fuck up already? Jesus, quit whining, you sound like Michael.” Trevor slipped out of his overshirt, draping it over the sink. He reached for his belt, the buckle jingling.

Katie started at the noise, trying to make herself as small as possible. She tipped herself off the toilet, landing hard on the floor, crammed into the corner against the wall. “You’re not-- you’re not gonna rape me, are you!?”

Trevor snorted, pulling his belt through the loops. “What is wrong with you, Katie? I give you free drugs, because I’m a kind and generous soul, and you _assume_ that means I’m gonna rape you? You’re twisted, sister!” He looked down at her, belt hanging in his hands. “Unless-- you want me to rape you?” 

“No!” she yelled, her arms flailing before she wrapped them tight around herself protectively. “Don’t! Please, don’t!”

“Yeesh!” He laughed, wrapping the belt around his bicep, pulling it tight. “Now, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I think you’re laying it on a little thick.”

Trevor flexed his arm, kept clenching and unclenching, pushing his veins up to the surface. He put the needle between his teeth, pushing his skin around with the other hand to find the biggest, sweetest vein. The back of his forearm would do.

He took the needle into his right hand, pressing down on the plunger for any air. He flicked the hilt, the liquid within clear, pristine. Beautiful. The lighting was good, made it easy to hit the vein on the first go. He pulled the plunger back, the barrel filling with blood, before he pushed it down. As soon as it hit his bloodstream he made a satisfied sound, taking the hit smoothly.

“Ooh, yeah. Now that feels _good_.”

He pulled the needle out, started loosening the belt, felt it go straight to his eyes. Michael was going to be pissed at him, Michael was _always_ pissed at him, and he didn’t care because he felt fucking great. He felt like he could take on the world, like he could kill anyone who tried to get in his way. He felt invincible.

The belt went easily back into the loops in his jeans, his overshirt back in place, concealing the marks. He bled through the fabric, but it didn’t matter, Michael was going to kill him anyway. God, he hoped Michael would try to kill him. Michael, he wanted to touch him, wanted to get close to him. Take him into the marital bed and suck his cock, kiss him, maybe get him to put that gun in his mouth, in his ass, he’d take it anyway he could get it. He just missed him so much, and the drugs helped, and killing helped but-- but--

His jaw worked fiercely, and he looked in the mirror, looked at himself. His eyes were wide and yellow, the iris a thin line around his massive pupils. His face kept twitching. Michael would be able to tell immediately. At least it’d get some kind of reaction. 

The tiara sat atop his head, sparkling plastic. Cheap and beautiful, just like him.

Trevor licked his lips, his mouth feeling dry, as he put away his kit. The hypo had at least one more use out of it, and he had enough shit to get the entire party flying high, if Michael wasn’t such a fucking boring old asshole these days.

Trevor turned, kneeling down to where Katie was curling in on herself on the bathroom floor, hyperventilating. Her skirt had pulled up high on her thighs, and his eyes dipped down to where the crotch of her panties peeked out. He pulled the edge of the fabric down, he wasn’t about to leave her completely debauched. She was family, after all.

“Get ahold of yourself, Kate! Jesus!” Trevor said. He slapped her lightly on the cheek. “Amanda's gonna be so disappointed with you."

She jerked away from his touch, kicking at him with a bare foot. He caught her ankle in his big palm, and gripped down, dragging her forward until she was propped up against the wall like a broken doll. 

“You’re a monster,” Katie said, her eyes darting around wildly. He stared back at her, unflinching. “You should be locked up.”

He leaned down over her. Closer, teeth bared.

“And _you_ should learn to keep your fuckin’ nose out things you know _nothing about_. Or I’ll cut it the fuck off!"

Katie didn’t say anything. He slowly released her ankle, rubbing his thumb over the delicate bone as he pulled his fingers away.

He stood up to his full height, rolling his shoulders back as he turned towards the door. He had places to be.

The sun had started to set over the horizon, casting deep pink hue over the backyard. It was like walking into a dreamscape, his mind thrumming with the energy that seemed to radiate off the grass. It was warm and lush, busy. The people standing around on the patio seemed to part for him, guiding him to who he wanted, who he _needed_. A couple of kids ran past him screaming, knocking him as they rushed by, and he could’ve been angry-- but he didn’t care. He couldn’t bring himself to care, not now, not ever.

Michael. It was always Michael, standing there in a sea of empty bottles and cans, washed out in the stark white light from exterior lights. He smirked, the lines around his eyes deepening, enshrouded in the smoke from the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He looked drunk. He was awful. He was perfect.

He stepped up behind him, swinging an arm around his shoulders. Michael started, a gamut of emotions running over his face, before he slapped a hand against his chest. A little too strong to be just friendly. “Here’s this fucker-- T, I was just talking about you!”

“No, he wasn’t,” said Kevin. “Our boy Mikey was bein’ real coy, wouldn’t give us any war stories. I know you got some.”

Trevor’s eyes narrowed. “Oh _Mikey_ , is it, now?”

The drunk guy he recognized from earlier, whoever the fuck, raised his beer. “Oh yeah, those two got all starry-eyed talking about their fantasy league picks earlier-- I think Kev’s gonna work up the nerve to ask him to prom soon.”

“Don’t be jealous you won’t make homecoming queen, Pat,” Kevin chuckled.

Trevor looked over to the other men, Kevin, a few of the others he didn’t care to know. He grinned. “Mike, you fuck! What does that make me, then, the side-chick?”

Kevin gestured to Trevor’s head with another one of Michael’s bummed cigarettes. “Dunno-- you got the crown, man.”

“Y’all are gettin’ way too fruity for me,” said Pat, “This is why I stick to wrestling.”

“Maybe you should stick to drinking, insinuating shit like that,” said Michael. 

Kevin shook his near-empty. “Someone might have to do a beer run for that to happen.”

Michael smirked. “I’ve got some of the hard shit inside, if you boys feel like puttin’ some hair on your chests. Unless you ain’t up to it.”

“You fucker, Mikey,” said Pat, “you’re on! Kev, we gotta beat ‘em!” 

It was like he hadn’t even heard it, the type of challenge laid out that usually kept him interested. He didn’t care, he could feel Michael’s body heat, just wanted to touch him, put his hands all over him, inside him, fill up that emptiness with himself. 

Michael looked at him, looked at his eyes and he could see the sudden downturn of his mouth. But no words came. He just jostled him, took another gulp of his beer, looked to Kevin. Started talking, spinning his silk thread. But he didn’t let go. 

Everything was right in the world. He had Michael under his arm and drugs in his veins, fresh kills in the rearview mirror. Everything was right, he was right where he belonged.

The conversation drifted away from them. It didn’t feel like there was anyone else around. Just the two of them, together. Michael leaned in close, breath hot against his neck, his fingers curling into his shirt. He whispered into his ear.

“ _What the fuck is wrong with you?”_

* * *

“--no, really! I swear, it’s my special secret talent.”

Richard laughed, holding her gaze. He didn’t even sneak a glance at her breasts as she pressed her arms together, and they looked fantastic, she knew. “Man, wish I could’ve seen that. And here I thought your cupcakes were special, but I guess you’ve got a lot of surprises.”

“I’m a very talented girl.”

“Yeah, Amanda, you’re-- you’re an amazing woman,” he said, his eyes hopeful.

Amanda smiled, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. It was just the two of them, alone. The party continued on the patio, people sitting in deck chairs, laughing loudly as the music played from the tinny stereo. It switched to a slow song, Patsy Cline, something Michael must’ve put on. God, he was depressing.

Dusk had started to dig its claws in. She knew she should be getting the cake ready. She knew she should be attending to her guests, her children, but she’d had enough wine that it didn’t seem as important. She could spend the time. And Michael had just made her so angry, always going over her head, she couldn’t stand being near him. She just wanted to get away, go somewhere far, far away from him. Richard was like an island vacation-- she could practically feel the ocean breeze on her skin, felt utterly alone just standing beside him.

She’d lost her shoes somewhere, her toes digging into the dry grass as she propped herself up against the fence. Her head felt heavy. Richard took a step towards her. She glanced again at the patio, where fucking Trevor and her stupid husband had goaded a group of the men into doing shots. She hadn’t put the hard liquor out for a reason. 

Instantly, she was furious. This was supposed to be Tracey’s birthday party, not some college kegger. Michael never even fucking went to college. She huffed, pushing herself away from the fence, immediately stumbling.

“Whoa, there! Careful!” 

Richard reached for her, keeping her upright against him. She swayed back into his hold, her head lolling against his shoulder. She took a deep breath, the scent of drugstore cologne and clean soap permeating her senses. 

“Fuck,” she mumbled, starting to pull away, “Sorry, it’s--”

He didn’t let go of her. His fingers, slender and long, slipped between hers, tangling them together between their bodies. Hidden. Nobody was paying attention to the two of them, anyway, and the party seemed so far away. Her life, it just seemed so far away.

“Amanda…”

She closed her eyes. Listened to his heart. It was faster than Michael’s. Her husband’s beat so slow, so cold-- it seemed like with every torturous pump it was trying to will itself to stop.

“Mandy,” he said, quieter. “I wanted to tell you, that I--”

“Hey, Mom?”

Amanda’s hands moved up to Richard’s chest, gently pushing him back. “Jimmy!”

Richard dropped his hands like she was poisonous, whirled around to face her son. “Hey, James.” He cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses. “What’s up?”

His face was ruddy, and he looked so much like his father giving her that same loaded, knowing look. Amanda bit the inside of her cheek. “It’s not very nice to creep up on people like that, honey.”

“Mom, can you come with me?” Jimmy insisted. Like he hadn’t even heard her.

She turned to Richard, and then back. “I’m a little busy right now, honey. Can it wait?”

“Mr. Johnson, can I have my mom for a sec?” Jimmy’s eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets. “It’ll just take a second.”

"Jimmy--"

“It’s okay,” Richard said, waving a hand. “Go ahead. I’ll-- I’ll be around.”

Her son reached up for her hand. She stared down at it, a strange sense of dread building inside, before reaching for him. He lead her over the grass, past the kids sitting in tight-knit circles, red cups in their hands. Tracey looked up at them, where she sat with Tyler and their friends, but Amanda kept walking. 

Her bare feet fell on the cool granite of the patio, and she kept following her son, an exodus through the backyard. The hanging lanterns swayed in the breeze overhead, the back of her son’s curly hair blood red in the shift of shadows.

Michael didn’t look at her as she passed. Trevor tracked her movements with sharp eyes.

It was empty inside the house. The sliding door closed behind them, the sound muffled from the outside. Jimmy dropped her hand, disappearing around the corner as he went to the guest bathroom.

“Promise you won’t get mad,” said Jimmy, reaching for the handle. 

“Jimmy, what--”

He opened the door inward, and Katie screamed, thrashing around on the bathroom floor. “Get away from me!” She kicked fruitlessly at the door, scrambling into the small space beside the toilet. 

“I swear I just found her like this!” said Jimmy. He had gone ruddy in the face. “I tried getting her up, but she just screamed at me. I didn’t know what to do, Mom.”

“Oh, Jesus, Katie,” Amanda muttered. Her eyes dipped to the mirror on the counter, the remnants of white powder, and she nudged Jimmy back with an arm. “Jimmy, go get your dad.”

“But--”

“ _Now_ , Jimmy.”

He made a small, distressed sound, one that she knew meant he was about to cry. He could never just do what she asked, always had to make a fucking production out of it. 

She reached for him, touching the top of his head. “Please, honey, don’t cry. I just need you to get daddy for me, okay? Can you do that for me?”

“Okay,” he said, uneasily. Jimmy sniffed, and took off towards the back door, practically throwing himself against the glass. 

Amanda slipped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Katie curled up in on herself, breathing hard in the corner. She shook her head, picking the mirror up off the counter, inspecting it. She didn’t even have to ask, tipping the mirror off into the garbage, not even caring that it shattered. It was tainted.

She turned, crouching down on the floor. “Katie? Honey?”

“My hands feel really big right now,” she said, “I can’t-- I can’t feel my hands.”

She scooted closer. “Katie? Sis, it’s Amanda.”

Katie looked up at her, but there was nothing behind her eyes. She just stared, her mouth hanging open. 

“What did you take?”

“It’s-- he-- K? And speed.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Amanda muttered, reaching for her. She needed to get her off the floor, into another room, before one of the guests, or worse, one of their kids saw what was happening. “Come on, honey, we need to get off the floor.”

“No!” Katie shrieked, kicking at her. A kick caught her in the arm, and Amanda fell backwards, onto her ass. The world seemed to tilt for a moment. Maybe she shouldn’t have drank as much as she did. Maybe she shouldn’t have thrown this party in the first place. Maybe she should’ve had that abortion after all.

Amanda felt tears gather in her eyes. She sniffed, wiped a hand over her nose, and started forward again. “Katie, come on, we need to--”

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” Katie moaned. Amanda wrapped a hand around her wildly moving arm, and started to pull. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to, you-- you still love me, right?”

“Of course I still love you, Katie. You’re an idiot, but you’re my baby sister, and I’ll always love you. Now, come on, I need you to--”

Katie started sobbing. “I’m sorry, ‘Mand. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m--”

“Oh, great. Just fuckin’ great.” 

Amanda turned, finding her husband cramming his wide shoulders into the small bathroom. Michael closed the door, stood there for a moment assessing. He ran a hand over his mouth. “What the fuck happened to her? She high? I thought I paid to get her to quit that shit.”

“What do you think?” Amanda hissed, starting to pull Katie to her feet. She sagged, her legs not working under her, and so she put Katie back down on the toilet, holding her shoulders to keep her from falling off. “You wanna bet who hooked her up? Michael, I told you this was going to happen, the second he walked in the--”

He motioned to silence her with a hand, stepping forward. “Don’t start. We need to get her out of here.”

“I can’t believe you!” Amanda said, sliding a hand under Katie’s armpit as Michael did the same on the other side, wordlessly. They had a lot of practice. “You fucking hypocrite! He’s probably out there all tweaked out, and-- oh my _God_ , Michael, you didn’t leave him out there with that fucking cop, did you?”

“What!? No! You think I’m stupid?” They both tugged at the same time, lifting Katie to her feet. “I left him with Jimmy.”

Katie’s head lolled to her chest, and she groaned. “‘Mand, I don’t feel good. I want-- I want mom, I want--”

“You left your psychotic best friend high on meth with our _eleven year old son_ and you’re wondering if I think you’re _stupid_ , Michael!?”

Michael seemed to freeze for a moment, like he words sunk in for once. Then, he was turning on her. “Amanda, shut up! For once-- just-- shut _the fuck_ up!” 

He jerked Katie by the arm, forcing her to stumble along. Amanda closed her mouth obediently, her eyes stinging. 

Michael opened the door, peeking around the corner, before shouldering it open. They didn’t speak as they guided Katie down the hall into the master bedroom, through to the connected bathroom. 

She dragged a throw pillow and a blanket off the bed and put it onto the floor like a little nest, and left her a glass of water. Katie curled up onto her side, awake but out of it, making quiet, discomforted noises. There was nothing she could do for her until the drugs worked their way out of her system. She was so angry she might strangle her if they stayed in the same room, anyway. She’d done more for her sister than their mother had done her entire fucking life, and still, she cried out for her instead.

Pulling the door shut, she drew in an unsteady breath, planting a hand on the frame. She could feel Michael standing behind her, blocking her path back to the outside. She was alone with him. 

His fingers grazed her shoulder. “Amanda--”

She whirled around, shoving at him. “I told you, Michael. I knew this was going to happen, but you didn’t listen to me!”

“Stop creating issues, okay!? We have enough _shit_ to deal with right now.”

Anger reared up her chest, and she went to push him again. Her fingers slipped, and she stumbled against the dresser. Michael reached for her, but she wouldn’t allow it. “Jesus, Mandy, are you drunk? Seriously?”

“Like you aren’t! I saw you pounding back shots out there with the guys like a fucking frat boy!”

“You think I’d fucking do that? I was switching mine out for water, trying to get that asshole cop shitfaced so he’ll stop asking so many goddamn questions! Do you think I’m a fucking moron!? I’m not gonna get wasted when we got all these kids around, and a cop and a kill--”

Michael’s mouth snapped shut. Amanda stared at him, stared at the sweat beading at his temple.

He looked away, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, can we not do this right now? I’ve got everything under control. We just need to--”

“Need to what, Michael?” she asked, her voice rising. “ _Kill_ somebody else?” 

“Amanda--”

“I know, it’s all _my fault_ , because I have some drinks to try and relax! It’s all my _fault_ I’m so fucking _stressed out_ , and not because my husband brought a mass murderer into my _house!”_

“Oh, it’s your house now, is it? ‘Cause you pay all the fuckin’ bills.”

“Because I _live_ here, Michael-- all the time! I’m _trapped!_ You can just come and go as you please, but I’m stuck here!” Her hands flew to her head, her fingers pressing into her skull like that would hold her mind together. “I’m in hell! You bring him here when I specifically told you not to, because he’s _dangerous_ , and do you see what fucking happens! You don’t care about me, or the kids, you just-- you don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself! You’re selfish, Michael! You’re--”

“ _I didn’t have a choice!_ ” he roared. He stepped forward, backing her into the dresser. The jewelry box clattered, tipped over onto its back, a ring rolling off and falling onto the floor. 

Amanda’s heart fluttered in her throat. 

“That’s it, isn’t it. You can’t say no to him.”

“Amanda--”

“Why would you ever say no to him when he _lets_ you act the way you do? You can’t help yourself, right? You have no choice.”

He reached for her. She flinched. He looked at his hand like it didn’t belong to him, his fingers curling into a fist.

“Mandy, please.”

She shook her head, tears rising in her eyes. “We’re going to get through tonight, Michael. We’re going to get through tonight, and then I need you to leave.”

Michael finally looked at her. His eyes softened. “What-- what are you saying?”

“You can’t stay here.”

“What do you mean ‘I can’t stay here?’ It’s my fucking house.”

“Then-- the kids and I will go.”

“Go where, Amanda?”

“I don’t know. Away from you. Away from _him_.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I mean it this time, Michael.”

His hand settled on the dresser to her side. “You’re not taking the kids.”

“I don’t have to _take_ them, Michael. They’re old enough now to choose who they want to stay with, and I can guarantee it won’t be you.”

“Mandy, come on,” he said, his chin dipping down. He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes were hidden. “Come on, don’t-- don’t do this to me.”

“You did this to yourself,” she said, shaking.

His other hand settled down the dresser, caging her in with his body. He was so much bigger than her. Stronger. Amanda went stiff, flattening her back out against the wood, turning her head away from him. 

Michael’s breath came faster. He reached for her, tried to touch her cheek, but she slapped his hand away. “Don’t _touch_ me, Michael!”

He seemed to stop him for a moment, before he was leaning in, breathing the scent of tar over her skin. “Well maybe if you fucking _let_ me touch you once in awhile we wouldn’t be in this fucking situation!”

“What the fuck does-- fuck you, asshole!” She planted her hands on his chest and shoved. _Hard_. He was like a brick wall, unmoving. “You don’t _own_ me!”

His arms came down around her shoulders, trying to hold her down. “Amanda, calm down.”

“Let go of me, Michael!” she shouted, knocking her fists against his chest. 

He tightened his arms around her back. “Amanda--”

“ _Let me go!”_

The crack of her palm against his cheek surprised her. Michael seemed surprised, too, the side of his face a violent red. His shoulders went tense. She looked into his eyes, and saw a man she didn’t recognize looking back at her.

Everything went quiet. Numb. Distantly, she heard the party outside. Children laughing. It seemed so far away.

Amanda’s gaze trailed past his face, to where the door had closed with a quiet click. Her eyes widened as the figure darkening the doorway turned his face to her.

“Well, that wasn’t very nice, Amanda,” said Trevor. He flipped the lock behind him.


	4. THE RING FINGER

“Trevor.”

As soon as the name left her lips, Michael’s hands dropped, and he turned, his movements staggered as if he was underwater. 

For a moment, nobody moved. 

Amanda’s gaze dropped to the floor, watching as Trevor’s boots started to move towards her over the carpet. His shadow seemed to creep forward, like deep water overflowing a drain.

She stiffened, her spine flattening out against the dresser. Michael turned his back to her, putting himself between her, Trevor, and the door.

“Hey, Trev,” said Michael, his voice high and reedy. He swallowed, then motioned with a hand. “What’s up, man? You need something?”

“You gonna act like I didn’t see what just happened?”

Amanda looked up over Michael’s shoulder uneasily. Trevor’s teeth were bared, his eyes wide and hostile. She sucked in a breath, her palm stinging from the strength of her slap. She hadn’t held herself back. Michael’s face was red, his eye watering. There were thin lines under his bottom eyelashes where her nails had caught his skin.

“That depends on what you think you saw,” Michael said, carefully.

Trevor stepped closer. Close enough that he was almost nose to nose with her husband.

“Oh, Jesus, Michael, are we gonna play that game? Huh? Is that what you fucking want right now, trying to bullshit me even though we both know _exactly_ what I walked into.”

“Trevor,” Amanda started, “it wasn’t-- I didn’t--” 

“I wasn’t _speaking_ to you,” he shot back. She flinched at his sheer intensity, before he switched his unsteady gaze at Michael. She watched his eyes map out the shape of Michael’s face, his mouth going slack. He reached out, his fingers grazing Michael’s chin. Her husband stayed stone still, unmoving. “Jesus, Mikey. She got you pretty good.”

“No big deal,” said Michael. “I can take it.”

“Oh, sugar,” Trevor said, chuckling. His thumb grazed Michael’s lower lip. “I know you can take it.”

Michael reached forward, slowly, his fingers curling around Trevor’s wrist. “Just let me deal with this, man. It’s an issue between me and her.”

His fingers curled into a fist, so close to Michael’s face. “You don’t think this affects the whole family, Mikey? You think we don’t pick up on it?”

“‘We?’”

“You really care about yourself so little, Mike, that you let your wife slap you around and think that I’m doing something _wrong_ by coming to your defense?” His voice steadily rose in volume. “Is it a problem for you that I _care_ , Michael? That I don’t like seeing you treated this way?”

“I can take care of myself, Trevor,” Michael said.

“Can you? I’m sure as shit not convinced.” He pulled his hand out of Michael’s grip, then nodded his head. “Now, move-- I’d like a word with our dear Mandy.”

He didn’t budge. He didn’t move a fucking muscle. Amanda stared at the back of his neck, following a bead of sweat as it rolled down the length of his spine, under his shirt. Trevor clicked his tongue.

“Come on,” Trevor said, chuckling. “What are you so fuckin’ worried about?”

Michael shook his head tightly. “I’m not worried.” 

“--because even though you’re a _pathetic piece of shit_ , Michael, it doesn’t give her the right to put hands on you like that!” His breath came in harsh pulls, before it was like a flip was switched, and his face went sorrowful with his hand pressed to his heart. “Can’t you see that I’m only doing this because I love the both of you, so much it _kills me!"_

“Trevor, you--”

“Come on, Mikey! Like you said-- it’s no big deal! I just wanna teach her a lesson about a little thing called respect.”

Trevor stared him down, his hand moving to Michael’s shoulder, pushing. Amanda swallowed, her heart rising into her throat as neither of them moved. Michael seemed to resist. At first. Then, he stepped to the side, his eyes going distant as they remained locked with Trevor’s. His hands were shaking.

She forced herself to look up and meet Trevor’s stare. She could feel Michael paralyzed between the two of them, feel his inaction worse than any physical strike. She drew in a deep breath, pushing herself off from the dresser. She planted her feet like it would keep her upright when the inevitable happened.

“Mandy, Mandy, Mandy,” he said, in that chiding tone. His tongue dipped out, ran along the underside of his upper lip, before he was leaning forward. She bristled, turning her face away from the rancid smell of his breath. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s not nice to hit the ones you love?”

She didn’t say anything. 

“Now, I know our Mikey can be difficult. So difficult, that sometimes you just want to rip his _fucking_ head off and look down the hole, see if there’s anything _human_ left in there! I get it, I do! I know he sometimes needs a little push in the right direction, just a tiny nudge to get him to do what you know is good for him-- but that doesn’t mean you get to hurt him.”

Still, Amanda didn’t speak. She could hear the blood moving in her ears. 

Trevor raised an eyebrow, tilted his head, peering at her like a curious dog. “Got nothin’ to say for yourself?”

She fumbled. “I--”

“Oh, I get it. You’re ashamed. I _understand_ , Amanda, what it’s like to be so passionate that all that emotional energy just has to _go somewhere_. Michael’s the kind of man that evokes a certain strong reaction-- I’ve been there, honey, I understand.”

“Trev, man-- come on.”

“I’m not finished!” he spat. He loomed closer to her, his hand settling on the dresser next to her, in the same place her husband had been only moments before. “Now, Amanda, what do we say when we hurt someone we care about?” 

“I--” She blinked rapidly, looking anywhere but his face, “I-I’m sorry, Trevor.”

“Why are you apologizing to me, you fucking idiot? Say you’re sorry to _him_.”

Amanda turned to Michael. She could barely make out his face through the tears that threatened. “I’m sorry, Michael.”

"It's okay, baby," Michael said, quietly. "It's gonna be okay."

“Good girl.” 

Trevor’s hand slipped down to Amanda’s shoulder, where the strap of her dress had slid down. He hooked his finger under the fabric, setting it back into place. Her breath came faster as his fingers traced the line of her collarbone. Michael didn’t stop looking at her face, holding her gaze with his own. It was the only thing that kept her standing. Her knees quivered beneath her.

“Now, I just hope that after this little incident, Amanda, well, I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson. And the next time you get that urge, and trust me, I know how… ur- _gent_ that can feel, but the next time, that-- that you can channel it in a more productive manner. Be more like me, eh? Go hurt some people who really _fucking_ deserve it! Or even people who don't. Honestly, I'm not that picky.”

“Okay,” she said, quietly.

“You promise?” he asked, his voice deceptively full of wonderment. In that moment, she was almost reminded of Tracey, the same way she asked her father if he’d be back when he said he would. Michael never kept his promises.

“I-- I promise.”

“Because if you don’t...” he murmured, leaning in close. He didn’t continue, just breathed ragged against into her ear. 

Amanda couldn’t hold back the high-pitched whine that left her throat. She edged her head away from him as much as she was capable, the muscles in her neck straining with the effort.

“Trev, please,” said Michael. His voice cracked, and he swallowed, trying again. “Come on, T, please, just-- stop this. Please.” 

He threw his head back and laughed, taking a directionless step back. “Fuck, Mike, do you hear yourself? ‘Please, please, please!’ Give it a fuckin’ rest, eh? I knew she had you whipped, but I didn’t think it was that fuckin’ literal!”

“She said she was sorry. I’m not mad at her.”

“Oh, because _you’re_ not mad at her, that means that I need to, what, just _get over_ it? That means I should be okay with this _fucking cunt_ pissing all over all the love and security you’ve provided for her? I should be okay with her taking all the sacrifices that you’ve made for _her_ for granted, Michael, you fat, selfish _fuck_!?” His teeth grit, and she tensed as he got closer, flecks of saliva catching on her face. “She doesn’t know how good she’s fucking got it! You have no _fucking idea!”_

It was then that Michael moved. He arced forward, and it was like the room tilted on its axis, his hand curling around the tip of Trevor’s shoulder. Then, his palm flattened out, sliding inward. He held the back of his neck. 

“Trevor,” Michael said. Amanda watched his face, watched his lower lip shake. “Please, man. _Please_.”

Trevor closed his eyes. His chin lowered to his chest, and his breathing slowed. He turned away from her, then and only then, stepping into Michael’s hold. She watched, distantly, as he reached for her husband’s face once more, his thumb brushing the marks on his cheekbone.

“You know me, Mikey, I don’t ask for much. I just want everyone to be together, you know,” he said. “Wouldn’t want the kids to have to grow up without their mom.”

Michael nodded imperceptibly, his face perfectly blank. “I know, T.”

Trevor’s hand dropped down to Michael’s shoulder, and he sucked in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. He squeezed his hand down on his trap muscle, gave Michael a good shake. 

“Well, okay, I think that about covers it! I just had to get my two cents in. I’ll leave you crazy kids to it.” He grinned, swiveling back to her. “You’re lucky I love you, Amanda, because--” His eyes opened wide, his hands tensing, the veins in his face and neck jumping out, “If I didn’t love the both of you _so much_ , I’d-- I’d just-- _FUCKING_ \--”

He stopped. It was abrupt, like a short circuit, an engine dying. Then, he shook his head, taking a step back. Amanda stayed frozen as he turned around, walking over to the door. 

Gripping the frame with white tipped fingers, Trevor waved a deceptively cheerful hand. “Anywho-- see you both back outside for cake! Wouldn’t want to keep the birthday girl waiting too much longer, now would we?” 

The door closed softly behind him. 

Amanda sagged like a puppet with cut strings. Michael walked the short distance of the bedroom, and locked the door behind him this time. He planted his palms flat on the doorway, as if checking for a hellfire on the other side.

His shoulders were pulled up so tight it was like his head was trying to retract into his body. She’d always thought he looked a bit like a turtle. A handsome turtle. A hard shell hiding a soft, vulnerable underbelly, always disappearing into himself. God, she shouldn’t have drank so much. She almost wished he’d killed her. Almost.

Amanda sniffed wetly. Then, the silent tears started. She shifted her dress up over her thighs, hooking her fingers into the waistband of her panties, slipping them down and off. She swiped the fabric once over her crotch then tossed them fruitlessly into the laundry basket, quickly turning to the top drawer of the dresser.

She felt more than heard her husband moving close behind her. “‘Mand? Hey--”

“H-he’s right. We should go get the cake ready,” she said, numbly. It felt like her hands weren’t her own as she chose a pair of plain, beige panties from the drawer. So much for the matching set. She’d been so stupid.

“Amanda, hey,” he said, his voice coming surprisingly soft. Comforting. She stopped moving, clutching the fabric in her hands. “Baby, what are you doing?”

She whirled around, throwing the panties at him. Her face heated with shame. “He scared me so bad I fucking pissed myself, okay!? I had to change! God, Michael, you are so fucking _stupid!”_

He stood there with that empty expression, his eyes shifting as recognition dawned on his face. Amanda pressed her fingers under her eyes, willing her mascara not to run. The party continued outside, they still had a backyard full of guests. She needed to hold it together. 

Michael opened his arms, pulling her to him. She resisted at first, then put her head on his shoulder, clenching her eyes shut as she let out a low, awful sound. His hand stroked over her back, calming her, the other shifting up to cup the nape of her neck. His palms were so warm, his body so solid against her own. She’d made it out of that encounter alive, sure, but the night wasn’t over yet. It was never going to be over. 

She couldn’t stop the tears, then. Michael was just holding her, and it was like she could forget that he’d gotten her into this situation in the first place. She could pretend she was just a woman and he was just a man. _Her_ man. 

He was quiet. At first. Then, he laughed. Quietly.

“Are you fucking laughing?” she mumbled, saliva thick in her mouth. She pulled back to look at him.

He shook his head, tried to school his expression. Still, the side of his mouth twitched upwards.

“ _Michael_ ,” she moaned. She shoved him away, then hit him hard on the shoulder. He winced, grabbing for his arm. 

“That fucking-- he was still wearing that fuckin’ tiara. I didn’t mean to--“ He shook his head, breathing long and low with his forefinger and thumb pressed tight to his inner eyes. “Oh, Christ, Amanda. Oh, _fuck_.”

She sniffed loudly. She felt disgusting, her mouth watering. Everything tasted like salt. She swallowed. Distantly, she heard Katie scrabbling at the bathroom door, and wondered how close her sister had been to waking up out of her haze to find her mutilated corpse on the bedroom floor, her husband nowhere to be found.

“Michael-- is-- is he going to kill me?”

He didn’t say anything, his head down, fingers digging into his face.

“Would he really try?”

Michael didn’t look at her. 

“Michael--“

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Oh Jesus. Oh, God, the _one time_ you tell the truth!” She yanked the pair of panties out of the hand at his side, stumbling as she put them on. She stood upright, jabbing him in the chest with a finger. “And-- and you know what, you should stick to your lies because at least then I wouldn’t have to know it was coming!”

“Amanda,” he said, grabbing her hand in his much bigger fist. He held on tight, forcing her to face him. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. I love you, I’d never let--”

“How can you _say_ that!? How am I supposed to believe you! How am I supposed to believe you, Michael, when you--”

“You think you’re the only one that’s fuckin’ _terrified?”_ he hissed.

Michael’s hand dropped like she’d burnt him. Amanda stared at him as he swiveled away from her, wiping a hand over his mouth, a constant, repetitive motion. She stood paralyzed as he moved around the room, before he stopped, his back facing her, his hand covering his face.

The sound of his palm striking his cheek made her jump. He slapped himself again. “Get it together, man. Get it _the fuck_ together!”

She’d never seen him act this way before, had no idea how she was supposed to feel about it. Her husband wore many masks, and she’d seen them all, a kaleidoscope of half-truths over the years. All the colour had gone out, and this was all she had left. The scraped out shell of her husband, his house of cards come to flutter at his feet. 

“Michael,” she said, sniffing. She reached for him, gingerly settling her hand on the back of his shoulder. “Michael, what are we going to do?”

“We’re gonna--” Michael started, turning to her. He looked wild, his face red, eyes watering. He looked determined. “We’re gonna go back out there, and we’re gonna have ourselves some fuckin’ birthday cake.”

* * *

He barely made it back out to the patio before it sunk in. Standing there with the stark interior lights washing over him, Trevor looked out at the people in the Townley’s backyard, and saw normal people. Average people. They were getting drunker as the evening wore on, lost in their conversations, oblivious to the kids that had snuck cups and bottles of their parents’ beer. Normal teenage rebellion. It was all very normal.

He looked around for the kids, found Tracey off to the side with her brother. Jimmy seemed to be quivering, rattling off about something, and Tracey’s eyes moved frantically, searching the sea of adults surrounding her. Trevor looked away. He couldn’t stand her, not now, with her father’s nose, and her mother’s eyes.

It felt like there was a rat trapped in his chest, kicking and biting at his lungs, his heart. He grabbed a beer from the table riddled with empty bottles, cigarette butts, and drifted away to the outskirts of the party, a lone deckchair on the edge of the lawn. He leaned back in it, his feet kicked out, boots crossed ahead of him. He longed for a cigarette, the taste of tar on his tongue. Just to taste him.

He’d wanted badly to comfort Michael with his body. Kiss him, hold him, coax him away from that bitch of a wife. He’d wanted to kill her. Sure, he’d wanted it before, but in an abstract way, a jerk-off fantasy, a wet dream. No, this time, he’d _really_ wanted her dead. He wanted to feel her insides with his fingers, pull out her guts, her womb. He wanted to ruin the very thing that bound Michael to her in a way he could never have, feel it squelch and disintegrate through the gaps in his fingers. Nobody got to put hands on Michael like that and live to take another breath. He’d killed men for less. It was so fucking unfair.

His teeth clicked on the mouth of his beer, and he closed his eyes, trying to force himself to calm. The look on Michael’s face-- he would’ve never forgiven him, if he’d hurt poor, precious Mandy. It had held him back from wrapping his hands around her throat, feeling the gentle give of tendon and cartilage. The total and complete terror in her eyes was something he would dream about until the day he died. 

But Michael. Michael, who had at one time told him after too many beers, stone-faced, about his father’s fists, Michael, who’d killed a man for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time-- he let his wife hit him. He was in there with _her_. He had backyard birthday parties with suburbanites, he flipped burgers in the sunshine and wore polo shirts. He was a stranger. He was the man he loved, the man he’d go to the ends of the earth for, the same man who’d begged him in that voice he’d heard from so many other mouths before. He thought he’d never hear that voice from Michael.

Trevor exhaled noisily, his teeth grinding. He hadn’t actually hurt her. He hadn’t laid a fucking finger on her. Still, the way Michael had looked at him… God, he hated that look. His guts crawled, and he took another long slug of his beer, trying to drown that feeling. He’d made a mistake. A huge fucking mistake. His entire existence, a huge _fucking_ mistake.

“Hey. You seen Katie?”

He opened his eyes into narrow slits, found Kevin the cop standing before him, his feet planted firm in the dirt like he had something to prove. His stance wasn’t nearly as impressive as it had been before, lubricated with alcohol as he was. Trevor’s gaze lazily panned up his body over his beer, and he shrugged.

“Why you asking me? She’s _your_ fuckin’ girlfriend, ain’t she?”

“Well, I saw you head inside just before I lost track of her,” Kevin said, hooking his thumb into his belt, missing it the first time. He cleared his throat. “Heard some kinda racket, and then you came back out alone. Figured I’d check in.”

He took another pull from his beer. “No need to launch a fuckin’ full-scale investigation. I thought you were off-duty.”

“You’ve known the family for over ten years, right?” he asked. His suspicion was palpable, but Trevor paid it no mind. Kevin was a welcome distraction from the venusian flytrap of his own mind.

Trevor leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees. His chin jutted out, and he peered down over his nose. “Why you askin’?”

“Katie said she never even met you. Seems strange to me, her not ever meeting you in all that time. And then with Mike and Mandy disappearing, too-- I’m sure you can understand my concern.”

“So why don’t you march on in there, sparky, take a little looksie for yourself.”

“And leave you all by your lonesome?” His eyes flicked to the sleeve of Trevor’s shirt, where the blood had seeped through from the injection site. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, _bud_.”

“Jesus!” Trevor said, throwing his hands out. He grinned. “Everybody’s gotta be so fuckin’ critical. Let a guy live, will ya?”

“Then I’m gonna ask you again. Where’s Katie?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but his attention was caught as Amanda walked out the door, shoving her thumb and forefinger in her mouth to whistle sharply. Conversations tapered off, the music droning on in their silence, gazes panning her way.

“Okay, everybody,” she called out, waving a hand. She seemed unsteady, every word bit out between clenched teeth. Desperate to keep her facade of normalcy afloat even as it sunk further down. He wanted to shake her, scream at her, this wasn’t real, this wasn’t _real_ , slit her throat, he wanted to-- “I’m gonna need some help cleaning up the food, getting everything ready for the cake.”

She turned on her heel, started clearing tables off to make room. Some of the other women present jumped to help her, moving chairs, bottles clinking. Trash bags, black and ominous, stacked up against the fence. Trevor finished off his beer, set the bottle down on the ground. He craved another hit. It didn’t feel like it was enough. It never felt like enough anymore.

He stood up. Kevin didn’t move, standing like an iron door, in his way. “Where you think you’re going?”

“Well, I gotta go give the birthday girl her crown back for her big moment, don’t I?” Trevor said, gesturing flamboyantly. “You gonna let me go, or you gonna defame my character some more, _Kev?”_

“Yeah, go. But I’ll be watching you, _Trev.”_

Trevor chuckled. “Oh, you like to watch, do ya? Careful, cowboy, might see something you like.” He grabbed his crotch demonstratively as he sauntered away. He chuckled at the noise of disgust left in his wake.

By the time he found Tracey again, she had already taken her place at the head of the table. She was surrounded by her friends, her brother gone back to the side of his mother. Amanda seemed not to notice him at her heels, her eyes wide and empty. She tracked him as he moved closer, fixated on him as he approached her daughter.

Tracey’s excitement seemed somewhat tempered as she saw him approach. She jumped out of her seat, running past her friends, over to him. “Uncle T!”

“Hey, it’s the birthday girl!” He pulled the tiara off his head, spinning it in his fingers. “Think this belongs to you, killer.”

She took the tiara delicately with her fingertips, mulling over it, then turning up to him. “Hey, so, like, Jimmy said he found Aunt Katie in the bathroom,” she said, outright. She certainly didn’t get that nerve from Michael, the spineless fuck, that was for sure.

Trevor’s brows flared. “Did he?”

She fidgeted with the crown in her hand, glancing over her shoulder. People were starting to sit down, chatting. Amanda stared at the two of them from the end of the table, her grip tight around the back of a chair.

“Yeah,” said Tracey, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “She, like… Uncle T, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, Trace. Ask away.”

Those blue eyes turned up at him. “She was doing drugs, right? And you were with her, so...”

“Wha--” He laughed, even if it felt like someone was stepping on his chest. Like he couldn’t breathe, like Tracey Townley was sticking a knife through his ribs. “What do you even think that means? The fuck do they teach you kids in school these days anyway?”

“I know stuff, okay?” she insisted, clutching the crown in her hands. “I’m not a little kid! The internet exists, and I can, like, figure things out on my own! And after last time you were here, when--”

“What do you _think_ you know about _last time_ , huh? What kinda bullshit lies did they feed you about me? ‘Cause _I_ know the real reason your dad doesn’t tell you where he goes, and why your mom’s wearing that fucking godawful dress at a party that’s supposed to be about _you_. But oh, no, it’s all Uncle T’s fault for wanting to be fucking included for once! I’m the bad guy because I actually fucking care!”

He stopped himself, realizing that his voice had started to rise again. Tracey’s friends were looking at him, talking to one another in hushed tones.

Her lower lip trembled. “That’s why everyone’s acting so weird, isn’t it? That’s why you’re never around. Because you and my dad go away, and you do bad things.”

It started again. That feeling. His teeth clenched, and his hands curled into fists at his side. He fought for control, his nostrils flaring. 

Tracey took a tentative step backwards. It might as well have been a world between them. He shook his head rapidly, breathing hard, like he could force it out, get it out, make it go away. He couldn’t get it out. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get it out. 

“Uncle T…”

“You-- it’s-- you don’t know what you’re-- _fuck_ ,” he said, tightly. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling it, before throwing his hands down. “I’m-- I’m gonna go find your dad and help him with the candles. Make sure that stupid fat fuck can even count to thirteen.”

Tracey clutched the tiara she’d given her. Her friends beckoned her back to the head of the table, but she looked only at him. “You’re not mad at me, right?”

His jaw worked fiercely, and he shook his head. “No, Trace, I’m not mad. Just-- sometimes it’s hard, y’know? Getting older.”

“I guess,” Tracey said.

He watched her delicately place her crown atop her head, like it would fix things, her eyes searching his for every sign that she was wrong about him. 

But she wasn’t. They both knew she wasn’t. He looked away. He walked away.

* * *

“Hey, was Katie with you?”

Amanda looked over, where Kevin stood next to her, his face drawn tight with concern. Her heart was high up in her throat, felt like a knot whenever she swallowed. She’d kept her distance from Trevor while he spoke to her daughter, didn’t want to make any sudden movements. There was no telling what he’d do, even if she absolutely didn’t want him near her children. She just had to watch from afar.

A glance back told her that he was walking back towards the house. She stiffened, feeling Trevor pass her by, then focused her attention on Kevin. His eyes followed Trevor back into the house, back towards her husband, and she smiled thinly, trying to make sure Kevin didn’t notice. 

“Yeah, she was,” she said, reaching for the package of paper plates on the table. “She wasn’t feeling all that well. She went to lay down in our room for a little while.”

Kevin’s brows drew in. “Maybe I should go in and check on her.”

He started to move towards the door, but she she smacked him with the stack of paper plates. “No!” 

“Excuse me?” 

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Amanda, do you have any more napkins?” Eriko asked her, a few chairs down. “We might need a few more.”

“Just a minute!” she called, grabbing Kevin by the arm when he started to walk off. “Trust me, you don’t want to go in there. She’s having, er-- stomach issues.”

He stumbled a little, and she fought to keep him upright. He smelled like alcohol-- it seemed her husband had succeeded. Still, he kept asking so many questions. 

“I really think I should go check on her. I don’t want her to miss out on Tracey blowing out the candles. She’d be pissed.”

Jimmy tugged at her elbow. She hadn’t even realized he was there. “Mom--”

“Just a _minute_ , honey.”

“I’ll just go check on her,” said Kevin, motioning with a thumb over his shoulder. “It’ll only take a--”

“You know what I mean by stomach issues, right?” she said, almost frantically. “I know you really like her, but Kevin, don’t you think it’s kinda early in your relationship for _that?_ Come on, just-- stay outside. Let her keep her dignity.”

He didn’t seem to quite believe her, and Amanda stood there, unnerved. She bit her lower lip, turning to her son. “Jimmy, honey, can you do a quick check on your auntie? Just knock on the bathroom door, see if she needs anything?”

“But I wanted--”

“ _Jimmy.”_

“Uh, okay,” Jimmy mumbled. He huffed, his face red as he started off.

“Kevin,” she said, reaching for his arm. She regarded him warmly, squeezing his bicep. “I can see that you care about her a lot. But let her maintain her air of feminine mystique for a little while longer, okay? My son will take care of it, he’s a pretty capable kid.”

“I guess. Just-- her taking off alone like that. It ain’t like her.”

“Maybe not like how she is now. She used to be so independent,” said Amanda. She started to separate the paper plates, handing them out. “But, I guess she’s changed. She said she didn’t want you to see her that way.”

“I don’t think nothin’ she ever did could change the way I feel about her,” he said. His wistful smile revealed a little too much, but there was still that tightness in his eyes. He didn’t believe her. Kevin rubbed the back of his neck, glancing back to the door.

She followed his line of sight, to where Trevor now had his body halfway through the sliding glass door. Michael stood behind him with the cake balanced on a tray in his palms, staring straight forward, like Trevor wasn’t there at all.

It _was_ a nicer cake than she’d initially ordered. The bastard. The candles were tall and brightly burning, the flame wicking light over Michael’s face. Trevor held the door open while he walked through, then followed behind him as reverently as any disciple or pallbearer. 

Amanda looked to her daughter, at the head of the table, the dismay in her eyes. It was washed away as soon as she saw her father, the magnificent creation in his hands, white swirls of buttercream frosting and delicate florets on top. Her name was spelled out in a pink scrawl. It was perfect.

Her eyes felt tight. She followed her husband towards the end of the table, towards her daughter, singing. “H- _happy birthday to you--”_

The rest of the guests joined in. Michael did not sing, just continued walking steadily, one foot ahead of the other. He rounded the table to Tracey, setting the cake down ahead of her as the singing continued. 

The tiara she’d had given her daughter that morning at crookedly upon her head, shifting as Tracey peered down at her cake. Trevor must’ve returned it to her. It didn’t seem quite right, anymore. She longed to snatch it away, break it into pieces, prevent anything that had ever been touched by his hands from getting anywhere near her children. No matter what she did, she could never get rid of him, his filthy hands leaving permanent stains on everything he touched.

Amanda watched Michael set his hands on Tracey’s shoulders as the singing started to taper off. Tracey tangled her fingers with her father’s, glancing up at him. He squeezed her shoulder, and smiled down at her, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Trevor stood off to the side, behind him. He was watching Michael, as he always did, a constant presence looming behind. Tears filled Amanda’s eyes, as Jimmy collided with her legs, hanging onto her. All of them, together. Family.

_“--dear Tracey, happy birthday to you!”_

Everyone clapped and cheered. Tracey leaned forward, her blond hair swinging with the movement, and blew out the candles. Five remained. She extinguished each survivor, one by one.

* * *

Strawberry filling oozed against the blade, the knife slicing through the thick, fluffy layers of cake. Trevor watched Michael cut even squares, this itch starting in his palms. He wanted to snatch the knife, wanted to take it, but Michael had made a point to keep it away from him. Like he didn’t trust him with it.

Michael wouldn’t look at him. It was like he was pretending that he didn’t exist, even as Trevor hung over him like a shadow. Standing at the edge of the table, Michael worked tirelessly, cutting and serving cake with the same proficiency he would take down cop cars in a high speed chase.

At the other end, Amanda tended to her children. Jimmy was already on his second piece, his eyes wide and hollow, and Tracey had barely touched hers. Richard hovered around, the desperation practically rolling off of him, but it was like Amanda wasn’t even there at all. She smiled pleasantly, she catered to her guests, but it was like there was nothing behind her eyes.

He could hardly stand to look at her. She should be more grateful.

“So, what, you just gonna act like I’m not here now? Huh?” he whispered harshly, as Michael passed a slice of cake to one of the kids. His face remained perfectly blank. It made him angry. 

“What the fuck do you want me to say, T?” Exhaustion had crept into his voice. He plated another slice of cake, and it tipped over listlessly onto its side. Pat, that drunk fucker, didn’t seem to mind as he happily accepted it from Michael’s hands before wandering back to his wife.

“Look, I’m _sorry_ I got a little worked up back there, but come on, Mike!” He leaned hard on the back of the deck chair, trying to close up the gap between them. He wanted to reach out and touch him, but Michael had shifted his body away from him. His shoulders were so tense. “No need to be so fuckin’ cold, man.”

Michael still didn’t look at him. 

“Jesus Christ, Mike, if you hadn’t acted like such a fucking pussy and _handled_ your woman I wouldn’t have had to--”

He was cut off as Michael’s free hand shot out to grasp a handful of his shirt, the fabric pulling as he tugged him closer. Their bodies were turned far enough to conceal the gesture from so many observing eyes. It could almost be a brotherly embrace. Michael’s expression was eerily serene, and finally, _finally_ he was looking at him. His eyes were so bright, so clear in that moment. 

The knife still in his other hand glinted, dripping strawberry down over the handle. He hoped, distantly, that Michael would plunge it right through his heart, right in front of his family, these strangers he felt the need to keep up this charade before. Show his true colours in the red dripping down his fingertips, not sweetened or shaded with dye. His breath caught in his throat.

“I don’t think you realize the thin fucking line you’re walking on right now,” said Michael, his voice low and intimate. Just for him.

Trevor grinned, reaching for the knife. He gripped it by the handle, his fingers curling around Michael’s. His thumb grazed the edge of the blade, and he pushed down, let it dig into the flesh. “Ooh, Mikey, you know I like it when you go all alpha on me. Gonna rough me up a little bit? Show me who’s boss?”

His eyes darkened. “Oh, yeah, I’ll show you--”

“There a problem over here?” 

Michael’s fist uncurled from his shirt. He wrenched the knife away from Trevor’s hands, waving it merrily at the cop in their midst. “Hey, Kev, buddy. No man, no problems.” He gestured with the knife to the cake. “You want some? One of these flowers has got your name on it. After all, you’re the homecoming queen.”

“Very funny. What happened to your face, Mike?” Kevin asked, instead. He watched the knife in Michael’s hands, before his gaze drifted to Trevor. Trevor slid his thumb into his mouth, tasting blood and artificial flavoring. 

“Jesus, don’t you ever fucking _relax_?” he said, his hand flying out of his mouth with a wet pop. He gave Kevin’s shoulder a friendly slap. “You gotta use every opportunity to interrogate the people around you? Don’t you think you might be a little paranoid, Kev? Job’s gettin’ to ya.”

Kevin knocked his hand away. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Oooh, someone’s touchy!”

“Nothin’, man, no big deal,” said Michael. He offered a slice of cake. Kevin crossed his arms, and pointedly did not accept. Michael made a point of shrugging, grabbed a fork for himself. “Mandy gets a little overwhelmed sometimes. Surprised you even noticed, didn’t think she got me that bad.”

“Overwhelmed?” asked Kevin.

“Eh, she had too much to drink.” He shook his head, a put-upon dopey smile on his face. The dutiful husband, covering for his wife. He took a forkful of the cake, and his hands were mostly steady as he raised it to his mouth. “Just an accident. She nailed me with the serving tray pulling it down from the shelf.”

“All that yelling-- that an accident, too?”

“What’s your angle, Kev?” Trevor said, injecting himself back into the conversation. “Asking all these questions-- this really the first impression you want to give to your girlfriend’s extended family?”

“Dunno, man, how do you feel about my first impression of you is being tweaked the fuck out?” Kevin shot back, getting into his face. The first sign of that coolness, that composure, slipping away. His breath smelled of liquor, Michael’s cigarettes.

Michael turned to him, brows drawn in concern. He glanced over his shoulder, checking that all the kids were out of earshot. He slid the plate back down onto the table, then ran a hand over his mouth, sighing. “Trevor. Really, man? You told me you were clean, that was part of the deal, bringing you here.”

His lies were so effortless it was easy for him to play along. “Sorry, Mikey, you know me. I get _a little overwhelmed_ sometimes, too.”

“You promised me you wouldn’t do that shit around the kids,” Michael said, exasperated.

“I can’t help myself, Michael! Addiction doesn’t make any promises! I’m sure Kevin knows all about it, though, don’t you, buddy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh come on, Kev. You threw back shots like you were gettin’ paid for it, and I’m pretty fuckin’ sure you bonded with your precious Katie over mutual vices, sweepin’ in like some knight in shining armor, trying to _save_ her from herself. You think we can’t see how fuckin’ needy you are, ‘wah, where’s Katie, I need my Katie’ like she’s your goddamn security blanket?” He sneered at Kevin, sizing him up. “The second she left your side you crawled straight into the bottle, _bud_. You need her that bad? Must drive her fuckin' insane.”

Kevin didn’t immediately respond. A soft spot. A crack in the armor. 

“Trev, shut the fuck up,” said Michael. “You’re one to fuckin’ talk.”

“Hey, M, I see the signs, I’m just looking out! I’m sure Kevin here can _understand my concern_.”

“Yeah, you’re lucky that Kev’s a good guy, and can _understand_ that you’re an annoying dick. How about we all just try to relax, okay? It’s my kid’s birthday.”

They stood there for a moment, the tension palpable. Then, Kevin gestured loosely to the cake. “You said I could have one of the flowers? Long as you promise not to get fresh after the homecoming dance.”

Michael chuckled. “Oh yeah. Guess I did. No promises, though.”

He picked up the knife. Red filling blossomed as he made a fresh cut, but all Trevor wanted to see was blood.

* * *

She didn’t want to touch it. The gift tucked under the table in a tied-off plastic bag, it was like it had been contaminated. She huffed as she reached further beneath, unearthing the brown-paper wrapped box that had shown up on her doorstep earlier that week. It had no return address, signed only with a singular L. She wanted to burn all of it, get rid of any association with her husband’s other life. She didn’t even dislike Lester, the odd time they spoke on the phone, but she was at the end of her rope, was ready to tie it around her neck, at this point.

It was Amanda’s first moment of relative peace, alone by the gift table. She fought with herself not to let the tears fall, away from the prying eyes of others. Richard had been hovering around, likely upset that their interaction earlier had been cut short, and she just kept dodging the conversation. It wasn’t one she wanted to have, not now.

She’d failed her children. Jimmy had been so quiet the whole evening. She’d never meant for him to see something like that. She’d meant to keep that life away from him.

Amanda hid her face in her hand, clutching the edge of the table to hold herself upright. She just had to keep it together for a little while longer. 

“Hey, Mom? Can I talk to you?”

She sniffed, forcing her face into neutral as she regarded her daughter. She reached for something, anything, on the table to busy her hands. “Sorry honey, I’m a bit busy getting things together. Are you excited to open your presents?”

Tracey chewed her lip. “Yeah, I guess.”

Her hands clamped tight around the handle of a giftbag. The tissue paper tickled the sides of her palms, and she turned to look down at her daughter. Tracey’s eyes darted away, and she mumbled something inaudible under the music, the sounds of her guests. The dog next door had started barking again, adding to the cacophony. 

Amanda sighed. “What? You know I don’t like it when you mumble, Tracey, you’ll have to speak up.”

“I don’t care about presents.”

“Excuse me? That’s not what I heard earlier. You wouldn’t stop asking me if I got you that iFruit Nano you wanted so bad, and--”

“I don’t care anymore, okay!” Tracey said, firmly. “I don’t care. I hate this stupid party. I wish everyone would just go away.”

“Tracey--”

“It’s supposed to be _my_ birthday but instead all _your_ friends are here, everybody’s drunk and-- and Daddy’s acting like he doesn't even want to be here! You don’t care about me, Mom! Nobody cares about me, except for Uncle T, and he’s--”

“Oh, so you think I went to all this trouble because I don’t care?”

“That’s freaking bullshit! You just wanted an excuse to wear that slutty dress and invite Mr. Johnson over ‘cause you thought Dad wasn’t gonna be here!”

Amanda’s hand snapped out before she knew what she was doing, grabbing Tracey by the forearm. “Keep your fucking voice down, Tracey.”

Her face heated with shame. She hadn’t realized how it might have appeared to her daughter. It all felt stupid now, going above and beyond to make herself feel desirable. She just never had the energy to do it anymore. It wasn’t like Michael appreciated it, anyway. After all, he’d invited a man who wanted her dead into their home. 

Tracey tried to tug her arm away, but she gripped down, her nails digging in. “Stop it! You’re hurting me! What’s _wrong_ with you!?”

Amanda loosened her grip, but dragged her daughter in closer. “Where the fuck did you learn that it was okay to speak to me that way? You don’t know what you’re talking about, you little bitch.”

“I don’t know! I don’t-- all you care about is what _you_ want!”

“What _I_ want? Because _I_ wanted your father to take off? Because _I_ wanted him to forget about your birthday? All _I_ wanted, Tracey, was to make sure you had a nice party, and then you turn around make me feel like the worst mother alive and _he_ gets to be father of the year for showing up with your precious Uncle T.” 

“He--” Tracey’s voice hitched, her head dropping. “Dad forgot it was my birthday?”

“Yeah, he did. And like always, it’s somehow all my fault.” She dropped Tracey’s hand, turning to the gifts, starting to pick them up. “Excuse me for trying to do something for you because I wanted you to feel good.”

“No, Mom, I didn’t mean it like that!” 

“How did you mean it then, Tracey?”

“I _don’t know_ ,” Tracey whined, grabbing at her mother’s arm. Amanda refused to turn to her, just kept piling up gifts into her arms. “Mom, please, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it.”

“I’m busy, Tracey, getting together _your gifts_. I don’t think you even realize how much money, time and effort I spent putting this all together. Nobody in this family is ever notices how much I do.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. C-can I help? Please, let me help.” 

Amanda turned, her hands full of gift bags, and let out a sigh. Tracey’s head hung low, the crown drooping forward on her head, like all the light had been sucked out of her. She tugged at her hair, her lower lip trembling. “I’m sorry!”

Shuffling the bags over to one hand, Amanda reached out to tug her daughter in close. She bent down to wrap her arms around Tracey’s narrow shoulders, patting her lightly on the back. “Don’t cry, Tracey. It’s okay, honey, I’m not mad at you.”

“I’m sad, Mom,” said Tracey. She wiped the back of her hand over her eyes, the way she’d done as a small child. 

“I know, honey. Me too.” 

Admitting it out loud, it made her stomach drop. She clenched her eyes shut, willing herself to hold it together. She had to be brave for her daughter, not show the full extent of her fear, that deep awful endless emptiness that seemed to follow her around these days like a ghost. 

Giving Tracey one last pat on the shoulder, Amanda cleared her throat as she pulled back. “Okay, Tracey. I know this party isn’t what you wanted, but--”

“I didn’t-- I’m sorry, Mom.” Tracey looked up at her, her eyes shining. She smiled weakly. “I was just acting like a spoiled brat. It’s everything I wanted.”

Her gaze went past her daughter’s head, at the party that had devolved into drunken giggling, a few kids holding hands as they sat on the grass, women in plastic deckchairs talking quietly over cake. The music had stopped at some point, and the moon had started to peek over the trees, casting a glow over the backyard. It was almost normal. She could almost pretend.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Tracey said, again. Her face had faded. “I didn’t mean what I said before. I just want everybody to be happy. I just want to have fun, you know?”

“It’s okay, Tracey. You see that present under the table, in the plastic bags? Why don’t you grab that one. It’s from Trevor.”

Tracey reached past her, under the table, where the gift in question was pushed to the back. She grabbed it, hugging the box to her chest. “So… I can open them now?”

“Go get settled. I’ll bring the rest over.”

Her smile was so bright, so _forced_ that it almost hurt. She rushed her mother into another hug, and then tore off towards her friends. Amanda watched her go, unable to shake the feeling that something in her daughter had been irreparably changed. She had seen that emptiness in her own eyes in the mirror, so many times. She didn’t know how to go back, to before, when she’d looked at her daughter and seen hope for something better.

* * *

“--what is, oh my god, Britney Spears! _Toxic_ is, like, my favorite song ever! Thanks Tyler!”

More ripped up wrapping paper was thrown in his direction, Tracey carefully placing her Britney Spears CD reverently on the top of the pile of gifts. She flung herself at the boy in question, wrapping him up in a hug. His face went scarlet as she pulled herself away, Richard clearing his throat next to him.

Trevor tongued the corner of his lip, watching carefully as Tracey went for her next gift. 

Jimmy pulled back a chair next to him, eyeing him uneasily as he sat down. Amanda had left a not insignificant gap between them, that none of their other guests had filled. Jimmy’s eyes were red and puffy as he pulled his knees up, game system dangling from his fingers. Past him, standing behind Tracey, Michael was smoking a cigarette, watching the proceedings with an eagle eye. 

“Why don't you open the one I got you?” said Amanda, nudging a smaller box towards her. Her eyes seemed tired. Like she was counting the minutes until it was over.

“ _We_ got you,” said Michael, overhead.

The corners of Tracey’s lips twitched as she reached for the gift. She slid her finger into the end of the package, pulling loose the tape under the watchful eyes of her parents and guests. The bow was easily removed, the paper pulled loose. Her eyes flew wide, her breath coming fast.

“An iFruit Nano!” she exclaimed. Her friends crowded around to catch a glimpse as she flipped the packaging in her hands. She looked up at her mother. “I totally called it.”

“Too smart for your own good,” said Amanda, smiling a little sadly. 

Tracey looked over her shoulder. Michael took a step towards her, holding his cigarette away to lean over and touch his daughter’s hair, cupping the back of her head. “Happy birthday, baby. Hope it’s everything you wanted.”

“Is it a black or a white one?”

Michael glanced at Amanda. “Black, I think?”

“Oh,” said Tracey. Michael’s face flattened, and he pulled the cigarette to his mouth, stepping back. “Black is totally cool too. Like, thanks Mom and Dad!” 

There were only a few remaining on the table, one done up with tightly coiled ribbon, the other his own in the OK-Mart bags. Trevor nodded with his chin to the gift. “You should open that one. Sorry it ain’t wrapped or nothin’. No fancy card.”

She looked at him briefly, her eyes cautious, before reaching across the table for the bag. The handles had been tied together in a tight knot, and Tracey simply ripped through it, stretching and pulling the plastic like a blister ripping. She reached into the bag with a curious expression, producing a spiral notebook, the front decorated with pink and white flowers. She peeled the price tag off the front that he’d forgotten to remove, sticking it to the bag.

“It’s a notebook.”

“That’s part one,” he commentated as she flipped the the pages open. He gestured with his beer. “Keep going.”

Next was a steel ballpoint pen (not the fucking gel pens the bored teenager at the counter had tried to sell him on, they weren’t fucking sensible), a pocket knife with a pink handle, and a cordless phone. Tracey made a puzzled face at the strange collection of gifts laid out on the table. “This is great, Uncle T,” she said, in an unimpressed tone. 

“Sure, not as exciting or vapid as Britney fuckin’ Spears. Sure. But I’m a man of practical application, Tracey-- everything I’ve given you has a purpose.” He leaned forward, Tracey edging away to let him prod at each of the presents. “Notebook, pen. You take that and you write _everything_ down, everything you can think of-- you never know how important your memories might be one day. The phone is so you can call me, if your parents are being their usual _reasonable_ selves, and you need somebody _sane_ to talk to. You can tell me everything you’ve put in that book, so I don’t miss anything else in your life. Your dad doesn’t tell me shit anymore.”

Michael scoffed. Trevor took a steadying breath, choosing to ignore it. It wasn’t like Michael even knew what was going on with his kids to tell him, anyway.

“What’s with the pocket knife?” said Richard, sitting next to his son. “Interesting gift for a girl.”

“Well, you see, Dick,” said Trevor, tabling his beer. He reached for the knife. Amanda bristled in her seat. Michael stepped up closer to Tracey, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Unlike you, I don’t discriminate based on gender-- neither does violence. If someone tries to hurt her, I think it’s important that she can _hurt back_.” 

He snapped the knife open with a flick of the wrist, spinning it in his hand demonstratively. He took it by the blade end, passing the handle to Tracey. She held it almost like she was afraid of it, closing it with a cautionary, delicate touch.

“Hey, it ain’t a bad idea,” said Pat, slurring his words. His wife pulled a face. “With that psycho on the loose round these parts, chopping married guys up and--”

“ _Pat_ , there are kids around,” chided his wife. She patted his arm with a put-upon look. “Sorry, don’t mind him. He watches too much TV.”

Amanda’s face had gone very blank. Her hands gripped the table, the nailbeds white. He could feel her staring at him. He hazarded a glance over, and her eyes darted away, straight to Michael.

Michael wiped a hand over his mouth, flicking his cigarette away. “Enough about that shit. Tracey, you should--”

“Hey, there’s something else,” said Tracey, pulling the last object out of the OK-Mart bag. She scowled at the game case in her hands. “ _Righteous Slaughter_? Ew.”

“That’s actually for your brother. Didn’t want him to feel left out.”

Jimmy blinked, scrambling to catch the game case as Tracey threw it carelessly to him. A smile crawled across his face, as he looked to Trevor. “Thanks, Uncle T. This game is _awesome_.”

“That’s a pretty violent game, isn’t it?” said Kevin, standing off to the back. “Should a kid his age really be playing something like that?”

“All my friends play it,” said Jimmy, with a shrug. He started ripping apart the packaging, as Tracey balled up the last of the bag, giving it to her mother to stuff into the trash.

“Better than him going out and causing real trouble, at least,” said Richard, throwing a look at his son. Tyler chuckled sheepishly, sharing a guilty glance with Tracey. Michael didn’t seem to notice, his face gone pale, Amanda staring openly at him.

“One left,” said Amanda, after a moment. She offered the gift to her daughter, the ribbons bouncing as it moved. “I-- I think this one was from Katie.”

“Maybe I’ll just leave it until she’s feeling better,” said Tracey, holding the gift in her hands. She handled it for a second, before placing it back gingerly onto the table, her attention quickly redirected as Tyler joined her at her side. All of her other gifts were easily forgotten in lieu of the iFruit, the other kids spiriting her away from the table to mess with it. Jimmy had disappeared back into his game, his head down.

Kevin glanced to the house. “I should go see how she’s doing. Maybe she’s ready to come back out.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll go,” said Amanda, quickly. “I need to start taking things into the house, anyway.” She started gathering up the trash bags, taking emptied plates of cake and cracked red cups from the guests. Pat’s wife got up to help her, the party starting to spread out over the backyard once more, subdued now that the bulk of the festivities had ended.

“Yeah, man, Mandy’s got it,” said Michael. He reached into his jacket for his smokes, offering the pack to Kevin. “Have a smoke. Relax.”

He paused for a moment, then reached for a cigarette. Sliding it into his mouth, he patted his jacket, shaking his head. “Got a light? Can’t find mine.”

Michael nodded, reaching into the pocket of his jeans. Trevor followed the movement of his hand, chewing on his fingernails. His pants fit a little too tight, the bulge of his crotch pronounced. His mouth started to water. He’d like to get into those pants, make Michael sweat in another way. He could just kill Kevin and deal with the problem, if Michael wouldn’t throw a fucking hissy fit about it.

The hand slid out, lighter in hand, but something else flew out alongside. It rolled across the table, until it tipped onto its side. Michael stared at it, Kevin following his eyes. Amanda did a double take at the table, the trash bag sagging in her hands.

Trevor smiled, coughing behind his hand to conceal it. For all Michael had gone on about his own little five fingered souvenir, he sure hadn’t done jack shit to hide his own trophies.

“Mikey, you dog! That the real reason you took off, missin’ poker night,” said Pat, drunk and ignorant, as he reached for it. He gazed at the ring, turning it over his fingers. His eyes moved to Michael’s hand, which had paused mid-movement. “Oh… you’re wearing yours.”

A few guests leaned into each other, whispering further down the table. Kevin pulled the unlit cigarette from his mouth, turning to look at Michael. “Why you carrying a ring around in your pocket, Mike?”

Amanda dropped the bag from her hands abruptly, striding towards them with purpose, her feet flat on the grass. She leaned over Pat to take the ring from his hands, her eyes flicking from Michael’s face, to Kevin’s, burning straight through Trevor’s.

“Really?” she said, holding the ring in her finger and thumb. 

Michael glanced at him. Trevor threw his hands out. “What?” he laughed. “What the fuck did I do now?”

She threw the ring at him, Trevor snatching it out of the air. 

“I can’t believe you! I thought-- I thought you two were getting back together! And you, Michael, you told me it was a last minute job, and instead you were taking him to do God knows what-- some booze and stripper-fueled boy’s trip? You were supposed to be cleaning up your act, Trevor!”

Amanda pulled a face. Her eyes were frantic, pleading. 

Trevor smirked slowly, shoving the ring onto his third finger on the left hand, having to fight it over the knuckle. He spread his fingers out, showing Amanda demonstratively. She was going to owe him one.

“Aw, Mandy,” he said, playfully. “You know me. I _just can’t help myself_.”

Further down the table, Pat’s wife yanked him out of his seat by the arm. The others started to clear out. Richard stayed in his seat, watching the proceedings from a distance.

Kevin scoffed. “I’m supposed to believe that _he’s_ married?”

“They’re separated,” said Michael, sharply. 

“Yeah, we’re separated, but we’re still _trying!_ That’s what a real man does-- he’s _persistent!_ He chases what he wants!” He put his hand to his chest, leaning towards Amanda with purpose. She shrank back. “I ain’t givin’ up on real love, even if I lose my way sometimes!”

“And I’m sure you found your way, right into some whore’s panties,” Amanda sniped. It wasn’t full force, though, he could tell. She was holding back. She wouldn’t look him in the eye. 

He tongued his teeth. If she even knew the half of it. “You would know all about that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart.”

“ _Hey_ ,” said Michael. 

“That what all that yelling was about earlier?” said Kevin. “You all--”

“Why are you so fuckin’ nosy, Kev? Huh? I get that you’re a cop and you’ve got a small dick and an inflated sense of self-importance, but can’t you see that this is _family business_?” said Trevor. “I guess we’ve discovered the other obvious reason why you and Katie get along so famously-- you both just _love_ to butt into things that _don’t fucking concern you_.”

“You shut your mouth about Katie.” Kevin pointed a finger at him. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about her.”

“Oh yeah? You sure about that, Kev?”

Amanda started, her hands raising defensively. “Kevin, he’s just--”

“”Mand,” barked Michael, raising a hand to silence her. She went quiet. “Give us a minute.”

She trembled, looking at her Michael for a moment, before turning on her heel and walking away. She gathered Jimmy as she left, leaving the three of them standing there, squaring off. Trevor grinned crookedly as he looked to Kevin, the doubtful expression on his face. 

“What do you know about her, huh?” said Kevin, the teeth finally coming out. He slid the cigarette behind his ear, his hands forming solid fists at his sides. “You’ve been running your mouth all night, so tell me, _T_ , what do you know about Katie? About us?”

"Well, I know all about her line of work, for starters." Trevor raised his brows suggestively.

"She doesn't do that anymore," said Kevin. "She quit for me."

“Kev, come on man,” said Michael. “He’s just trying to get under your skin.”

“Yeah, well, he’s under it.” Kevin took a step inwards, Michael already getting between the two of them. “We were anywhere else, I’d have ripped him a new asshole already.”

Michael blocked him with an arm, trying to hold him back. “Kev, seriously. He ain’t worth it.”

“Oh, I’m not _worth_ it, now, Mikey? You think I’m not worth it. Well, that’s just hurtful. You see, unlike Michael, you fat snake, I value honesty and open communication! I’m just being upfront with you, Kev! I don’t think you see what’s really going on!”

“T, now is not the _time_ for this.” Michael put a hand on his chest, looking at him, eyes intense. “You really want to start a fuckin’ fight, right here, right now, at my kid’s fucking birthday party?”

“Who’s starting a fight? Just because you and Amanda have been at each other’s fuckin’ throats all night doesn’t mean that every impassioned discussion is a fight, Mike!”

“So you _were_ fighting? I knew it-- that mark on your face ain’t no accident. I’ve been called to enough domestics, and everything Katie said about you before, it--”

“Hey Kev,” said Michael. “How about you fuck off?”

Trevor grinned. “Oh, so when he’s prying into _your_ shit you’re allowed to call him on it, but when he’s sniffin’ around what I did or didn’t do when his precious Katie came to her fuckin’ senses, I’m not _worth_ it?”

Kevin stared at him. “I should arrest you right now.”

“Arrest me?” he laughed. “For what? The _crime_ of taking off your rose coloured glasses? Where’s your girlfriend, Kev? You got so much to say about everyone else’s life, tell me, where is your woman?”

“She--” His brows creased. “Amanda said she wasn’t feeling well.”

“All of your questioning, and you didn’t bother to go check on her yourself? Either you trust other people pretty fuckin’ blindly, which is an interesting attribute for an officer of the law, or you don’t really care as much as you say you do. Which one is it?”

“Trevor--”

“Of course I--” Kevin’s face wavered. “Amanda’s her sister. What reason would she have to lie?”

“Dunno, buddy. You know her _so_ well-- you tell me. What reason, possibly, could Amanda have to cover for her darling baby sis, disappearing so soon into the house after little ole me?” He shrugged, playing innocent. 

“Trevor, _enough_.”

“What reason would she have-- I wonder what it could be!”

“Trev--”

“Did you fuck her?” asked Kevin.

Trevor grinned. Some cop.

“Straight to me fuckin’ your girl!” he laughed. “Oh, Kev, buddy, is that what you really think of her? Really, man? I know she was a stripper, but _Jesus!_ Some pretty broad assumptions about sex workers right there. Was she just that easy for you?”

“T--”

He made a show of scratching his face, displaying the ring proudly to Kevin’s wavering eyes. “Or did ya pay for it the first time?”

Kevin’s eye twitched. Bingo.

“You had your ring off,” Kevin said, slowly. “That’s what you were fighting about-- he covered for you, and that’s why Amanda was--” He put a hand to his head, making a low sound. “ _Fuck_ , I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” muttered Michael. “Don’t listen to him, he’s--”

“No, no, Mikey, this is good! Kevin, here, loses track of his girl for a few hours and assumes that she’s some slut that would just run off and hop on the first dick whipped in her general direction! I mean it’s a good dick, I know I got that animal magnetism, but _boy_ , buddy. How small is that thing in your pants, bro? Or has this happened before?”

Kevin dropped his hand, lurching towards him. Michael shouldered in between the two of them, keeping them apart. 

“Did you fuck her?”

“Well do ya think I fucked her, Kev?”

“Answer me, you piece of shit. Did you fuck her?”

“You that insecure? That you think she’d fuck some ‘edgy’ guy she just met, just because she might resent the fact that she had to _straighten herself out_ for you? Tell me, Kev, you think she really even gives a shit about you? Where is your girl, Kevin? _Why isn’t she with you!?”_

“ _Trevor!_ ”

His hands balled into fists at his sides. He stepped back, pointing out towards the fence. “Let’s go. You and me, right now.”

Trevor threw his head back, crowing. “Oh, so you _do_ wanna have a showdown at a thirteen year old kid’s birthday! What the fuck kind of cop are you? Kev! I love this guy, Mikey, where did you find this crazy bastard!?”

“Kevin, man, why don’t you go cool off,” said Michael, “Let’s not--”

“Oh, no, _let’s_! I know, M, you don’t understand the concept of defending one’s honour, you fucking pussy, but Kevin here is a man of action! Let’s fight this one out like _men!_ ”

The muscle in Michael’s jaw flexed, and Trevor watched the shift of expressions across his face. He wiped a hand over his mouth, looking between them, and nodded. “Okay, you know what, fine. Have your goddamn fight. But move this shit away from the house-- there’s a park about half a block away. Shouldn’t be anyone there this time of night.”

“Yes, that’s the Michael I know and love!” Trevor reached for him, shaking him by the arm. Michael threw his hand off, as Kevin shouldered past the two of them. “Let’s have us a regular fight for the lady’s integrity on the fuckin’ kiddie playground!”

He started after the cop, laughing, anticipating that Michael would follow. When he didn’t hear footsteps behind him, Trevor turned around. The sight almost stopped him in his tracks. Almost. Michael, shrouded in darkness, the fatigue in his face, the slope of his shoulders. The moonlight deepening the lines in his forehead like slashes from a knife. 

“Mike,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You coming or what?”

Michael brushed his fingers over his mouth, nodding. He stared at the ground. “Yeah. I’m with you, T.”

* * *

“--it’s been great, but really, we should get going,” said Eriko, hiking her purse up on her shoulder. She looked to Pat, who was more or less propped up against their two children, who seemed unfazed by their father’s drunken state. 

“Best party ever!” said Pat, wavering. His daughter gripped him by the shirt to keep him from bowling over completely. “Never been to a kid’s birthday quite like this. You should do this more often, Amanda. Birthdays for everybody, _woooooo!”_

Julia stepped up behind her, gathering her daughter, Alisha. Her husband stood silent with an empty casserole dish in his hands. “Us too,” said Julia, smiling blandly. “It’s been an, um, eventful night!”

Amanda smiled numbly, nodding. “I’m glad you all had fun.” 

Most of the guests were already gone, anyway. Leaving her alone to deal with the mess. Alone to deal with her husband. With Trevor. 

Eriko smiled, opening the door. Amanda’s gaze traveled down past the porch, past her, where among the lines of cars she could make out the retreating backs of her husband, Trevor and Kevin. Her heart started racing in her throat, and she suddenly felt light-headed. 

“They seem to be off in a hurry,” said Julia, mildly. 

“Michael!” Amanda yelled, on the porch before she could stop herself. 

Michael turned at her voice, scowling. He waved a hand. “Hey, babe, we’ll be right back! Beer run!”

His eyes were distant. He seemed so far away.

“Okay,” she returned, weakly.

Kevin didn’t stop at her voice, nor did Trevor. Like she wasn’t even there at all. Michael turned to follow them, jogging a little to catch up. She could feel it in the pit of her gut, the sense of _wrongness_. Whatever happend, she could only hope it wouldn't mean they'd have to move again. She closed her eyes, felt the breeze on her face.

The front step creaked as Eriko worked her way down, letting her husband and the kids go first. Julia stopped, putting her hand on Amanda’s arm. Amanda didn’t look at her, opening her eyes to the sight of balloons bobbing lightly, the sound of trees rustling in the breeze. It was a beautiful night to be washing blood off the pavement.

“Thanks for everything Amanda,” said Julia, “I’ll see you Thursday, okay?”

“Y-yeah, Julie,” said Amanda, “Thursday.”

Inside the house, she shut the front door with shaking fingers. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to will herself to keep from screaming. The ring. That fucking ring. She didn’t want to know, she didn’t want to _know_ and yet she couldn’t tear it out of her mind. 

It felt like she was floating, like she was watching herself from outside of her body. She stepped back into the kitchen, her hands reaching for the counter as soon as it was close enough. If she wasn’t hanging onto something, she would fall over.

The back door slid open. She turned her head slowly, like she was on a delayed input, her watery eyes finding Richard’s face. He stepped closer, reaching for her hand on the counter.

“Amanda,” he said. She looked at his hand over hers, detached. “Hey, is everything okay?”

She blinked slowly, looking up at him. “Of course. Why wouldn’t everything be okay?”

He moved in closer, his hand traveling up her arm. “Come on, Mandy, I think just about everyone heard the yelling earlier. I’m worried about y--”

Amanda pulled out of his touch. “Don’t you ‘Mandy’ me.”

“What? I was just--” He crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. He fidgeted, rubbing the back of his neck, kept making noises like he wanted her to ask something. 

She reached forward on the kitchen island, starting to stack together cups. Her daydream was over. She couldn’t bring herself to focus on him, not with knowing that her husband and Trevor were disappearing with a cop off into the night. Not with knowing that her husband was somehow connected to a murder investigation, had kept fucking incriminating evidence on his person with no concern for their family-- and-- and--

“Did he hurt you?” Richard blurted. “Do-- do you need help? Are you and the kids going to be safe here?”

The cups slipped from her grasp, bouncing across the kitchen floor. She watched one roll in a little circle on the edge of the rim, her very last ounce of self control slipping away with it.

“Why don’t you mind your own fucking business?”

She knelt down, picking up the cups off the floor. He didn’t move to help her. Standing up, she put them down on the counter, looking distantly at her hand like it belonged to somebody else.

His brows rose over the rims of his glasses. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t know a goddamn thing about me or my family,” Amanda said, turning to look at him. 

“Oh, I don’t? I spent an entire evening watching your husband get drunk, ignore you, ignore his kids, and then the two of you took off for like forty-five minutes to have some kind of screaming match. I’ve seen how Tracey and Jim act at school, and that creepy guy he brought? What the hell, Amanda, he brings a pervert like that around your kids? And you just let that happen?”

Rage flared up in her chest, like a horse kicking her in the ribs. It broke right through, bone shearing through the last remnants of her heart, coming up and out through her mouth like an armed assault.

“Fuck you! You think because I sucked your pathetic cock one night after a goddamn bake sale that means you get to make sweeping fucking judgments about my goddamn life! You’re a divorced grade school teacher in a shithole podunk town with nothing to show for yourself except child support payments and a crooked dick! You could fuck around corners with that thing!” Amanda shoved at his chest, forcing him to step back. “It’s no wonder your wife left you!”

“Mandy, what-- why are you doing this? I was just trying to help you! And you--”

“ _Don’t you fucking call me that name!_ Who do you think you are, thinking you can swoop in and _save_ me and try to tell me how to live my life because, _oh_ , you’ve got it _all_ figured out! Well, fuck you, _Dick!_ My whole life, I’ve taken care of myself, and who _the fuck_ do you think you are, that you and your thirty grand a year, two bedroom apartment, first-name-last-name _double Dick_ are gonna change that for me?”

She threw her arm forward, knocking cups and bottles all over the island, liquid sloshing over onto his stupid sweater vest. She pointed to the front door. “Get the fuck out of my house!”

Richard stared at her for a moment, his breath coming in quick gulps. She covered her face with her hand, turning away from him. She almost regretted her words seeing his face fall, but it was quickly forgotten as she looked past him, where Jimmy stood frozen by the partially opened back door, unnoticed.

“Jimmy!” she exclaimed. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Oh. Uh. I’m--” He looked at Richard, then back to her. He pointed to the hall. “I’m just gonna go to my room.”

He scurried off, his games clutched tightly to his chest. She looked past the space his body had left, to where out in the backyard she could make out her daughter’s blond head. She was sitting huddled on the grass pressed shoulder to shoulder with a boy, their backs facing the door. The dog next door had been put inside, the music had stopped, and it was quiet. Almost peaceful.

“Tyler!” shouted Richard, leaning out the door. The boy turned abruptly, leaping to his feet. “We’re leaving! Let’s go!”

“But--” 

“Let’s go, Ty!” yelled Richard. His voice had gone rough, and he hid his face from her. “Now!”

Tyler scrambled over to his father, Richard setting a hand between his shoulders to push him forward. Amanda stood at the island, shaking as they left in a flurry, the front door slamming behind.

Tracey stepped into the house, approaching the island, glancing to the front entrance way. She looked up to Amanda, confusion written on her face. “What happened? Why couldn’t Tyler stay, at least? He doesn’t live that far away.”

“Stop, Tracey.”

“But--”

“Can you just--” She stopped herself, massaging her temples. “I can’t deal with this right now, Tracey. I just can’t.”

Tracey scowled. “We weren’t doing anything wrong! It's my fucking birthday! I didn’t--”

“Please, honey,” said Amanda, her hand sliding to cover her eyes. She trembled, gripping the counter. “Please. I can’t do this, okay? Please just go to your room for now. We can talk about it later.”

“But Mom--”

“ _Go_ , Tracey!”

Tracey stamped her foot in frustration, releasing a loud shriek of anger. She stormed off to her room, slamming the door.

Amanda stood alone, breathing heavy as she covered her face. She sniffed, dropping her hand, looking at the mess of her kitchen. Soda dripped off the counter onto the floor, a pool at her feet. She reached for the dishcloth in the sink, but couldn’t bring herself to pick it up. 

She stared out the kitchen window. Her husband hadn’t come back yet. All the cars, the white van, they were gone. The balloons had gone pale and transparent in the moonlight, their strings tangling. All tangled up.

She couldn’t bring herself to clean. Instead, she went to the bedroom, almost in a daze. She wanted to lie down. She wanted to never get up again.

Sitting on the bed, she forced herself to breathe. There was a scratching at the bathroom door. “‘Mand, is that you?”

Almost mechanically, she stood up. She turned the handle. Katie lay propped up against the wall, vomit over the edge of the toilet seat. Her water glass lay tilted over on its side in a puddle on the floor.

“Sis,” she mumbled, looking up at her with dark, damaged eyes. “Did I miss the party?”

“Oh, Katie,” she mumbled, crouching down. “Yeah, honey, everyone’s gone.”

Katie reached for her hand. “Is that why you look so sad?”

Amanda just looked at her. She took her hand, their fingers tangling together. She had no words.

“Sis?” said Katie. “Why do you look so sad?”

* * *

“Gonna keep this a good clean fight, okay?” said Michael, reaching a hand out. Kevin passed him his gun in the holster, his car keys. Both were quickly put atop the jungle gym. Trevor busied himself shouldering off his jacket, tossing it listlessly over the abandoned see-saw. He spread out his arms when Michael gave him a look-over, displaying his lack of weaponry. Visible, at least.

The chains of the swingset rustled as the wind picked up. The leaves rustled, the little park encased in oak and maple, hidden from the nearby road. It had probably once been a nice park, when the neighbourhood was new, but the playground was old, splintered wood, the metal slide gone orange with rust. It was starting to cool down, summer crawling through the last stretch, but Trevor didn’t care. He couldn’t care, not with Michael stepping towards him with those vicious eyes, looking at him for what felt like the first time in a long time.

“T,” he said, reaching for his shoulders. Michael’s hands touched down on him and it was like his skin was singing. His palms were hot through his t-shirt, and Trevor grinned, staring him down. “Trev, you heard what I said, right? Fair fight.”

“Loud and clear, Mikey, loud and clear.”

He shook his head, releasing an exasperated breath. “Christ, this is fucking insane. Even for you.”

“Hey, I wasn’t the one who started it! Prince Charming over there wanted to fight for his lady’s honour, and who am I not to oblige him?” he argued. “Don’t fuckin’ blame me for this! Besides, anyone comes by, he’s a badge! He whips that thing out and waves it around, that’s like insurance for bein’ a violent, self-righteous dick.”

Michael dropped one hand, looking over his shoulder. Kevin was pacing a hole in the wood, like a bull in the pen. He looked hungry for blood. “Shit, not gonna disagree with you there.”

“Y’know, in another life, you would’ve made a great cop, Mike.”

“Oh yeah, then at least then if I’d blow my brains out to get away from your shit, I’d get a medal for it.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” He chuckled, leaning in. “So, what, M, you want in on this? Take this guy down together?”

“Nope. I’m here to supervise.” 

He tongued the corner of his lips, looking him over lasciviously. “You always did like to watch.”

Michael fixed him with one of those illegible looks, stepping back as Kevin approached, his gait heavy and unsteady. Trevor had to fight back a grin, turning to his opponent. 

“Kev! Bro! You ready to duke this one out? A duel for the honour of your lady of dubious morals?”

“You shut your fuckin’ mouth about her.” Kevin jutted his chin forward, all drunken confidence. “You seem pretty excited for me to kick your ass, at any rate.” 

“True, you are quite the large piggie, meatier than even Mikey here! Quite the fuckin’ feat, let me tell you.” He shook a finger at the cop, stepping back, giving himself a bit of space. “But I wouldn’t put all your pennies on the prize sow, there, amigo.”

“T, come on, quit it,” said Michael, motioning with a hand. “Do this shit.”

“I am gonna teach you a fuckin’ lesson about runnin’ that fuckin’ mouth of yours,” said Kevin, looking Trevor straight in the eye.

“Ooh, careful, Kev, that kind of dirty talk gets me all tingly down there.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Michael stood back, giving them a wide berth. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes, his hands shaking. Glancing around to ensure they were completely alone, he lit up, taking a good long drag. 

Trevor just grinned as Kevin stared him down, murder in his eyes. He had no idea what he was getting himself into. No idea what kind of rage he was hanging onto. He had no fucking clue what was coming.

“Okay,” Michael started, smoke curling around his shadowed face, “If you’re gonna fight, then fight. No cheap shots, T.”

“What the fuck do you take me for, M, some kinda asshole with no--”

He was cut off by Kevin launching towards him, going straight for the face with a wild haymaker, all strength and no finesse. Trevor weaved away, laughing, shoving Kevin by his broad shoulder, knocking him off-balance. The guy was good and liquored, went down to one hand, but quick enough on his feet that he was up soon enough.

“Whoa, buddy! Watch yourself.”

Kevin struck forward again, egged on by Trevor’s obvious goading, the frustration palpable in the wide swings of his throws. He fought like a bulldog, all teeth and jaw, no finesse, and Trevor was faster, just playing with him as he kept moving away. He didn’t make a move to strike back, instead entertaining himself by dodging away from his hits. 

With an angry grunt, Kevin threw himself bodily towards him and Trevor let the hit take. He grappled him around the waist, dealing a sharp jab to the ribs, knocking the wind out of him. Driving his foot downward, he nailed the other man’s instep, before slapping him away, putting space between them.

“What the fuck do they teach you assholes in the force these days? Fuckin’ jazzercise? No wonder you pigs all shoot first and ask questions later, a six year old girl could knock you the fuck out!”

“You’re dead,” Kevin wheezed, holding his ribs. “You’re fuckin’ dead.”

“Now, I’m no legal expert, but I’m pretty sure that could be classified as a threat of grievous bodily harm in a court of law. Just sayin’, bro, not sure you’re supposed to do that.”

“Trev, quit playing,” said Michael, “I’m bored of this shit, man. Hurry up.”

Of course Michael would want to see him on the offense. _Of course_ Michael would want to see him let loose. Their whole partnership, their whole _relationship_ had been comprised of Michael giving him exactly enough rope, how would this be any different? He exhaled roughly, shaking his head, letting his mind go. He pictured Amanda’s lovely face, the sweet emptiness of lifelessness in her eyes. Michael would hate it. Michael would love it. Michael wouldn’t know how to feel, but that’s what Trevor was for, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

“Come on, Kev, you said you were gonna kill me! Come on! _Kill me!”_

Launching himself, Kevin collided with him, bringing his massive fists down. Trevor laughed as he took a punch to the face, driving his elbow down in Kevin’s jaw, swinging his other hand to the side of his head with a staggering slap. He twisted away, but Trevor caught him by the shirt, swinging him inwards to nail him again in the mouth with the flat of his knuckles.

Kevin stumbled back, wiping blood from his mouth. “You’re a fuckin’ psycho!” He spat a mouthful of red flecked phlegm out onto the wood chips underfoot, his footing uneven. “Fuck!”

“Oh, _I’m_ the psycho? I’m not the one starting fights at a kid’s birthday party!”

“Yeah, you’re a fuckin’ psycho. You’ve been askin’ to get your ass kicked all night. Even the guy you say is your best friend acts like he can barely stand to be around you.”

Trevor looked at Michael, standing silent to the side. “Listen to this piece of shit-- the fuckin’ garbage coming out of his mouth, right?”

Michael didn’t say anything. He flicked his cigarette to the ground, snubbing it out with his toe. He looked away, thumbing the edge of his lips. 

His mouth went slack. “Mike?”

“See?” said Kevin, “Even _he_ wishes you were gone. Probably why he got us to come way the fuck out here, so he could have an excuse to get you away from his family.”

Trevor’s eyes narrowed. The nerve of him. The fucking nerve of him. And Michael, standing there, silent. 

Kevin wiped at his bloody lip. Trevor watched the slow crawl of a smile across his face as Michael didn’t say a fucking word, and it was like napalm in his guts. 

He started forward. Kevin raised his hands, and it he might as well have left himself wide open for the brutal way Trevor shot for him. He swung hard, going for the gut, his other hand catching a fist flying for his face. He didn’t let up, slamming the butt of his palm into the bridge of his nose, fast and dirty. 

“Fuck!” Kevin shouted.

The other man was bigger, but he was faster, deadlier, didn’t pull his punches. Trevor skidded behind him as Kevin held his face, his nose pouring blood. He kicked him in the back of the knee, coming down on him, grabbing a handful of his hair to shove him face-first into the mulch.

Kevin thrashed beneath him, Trevor striking hard at the back of his neck, straddling him to keep him down on the ground. He managed to turn himself onto his back, trying to buck Trevor off, but Trevor pinned his hands, knocking him hard in the cheek, dazing him.

“Maybe this’ll teach you to to mind your own fucking business, Kev!” He nailed him with his fist again, the pain lancing up his arm from his split knuckles. Kevin groaned, his head rocking to the side, his hands dropping uselessly to the ground. Trevor took his arms, pinning them to his sides, holding him down with his thighs. “Think about what you say! Words have _consequences!”_

Trevor sat back, atop him. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, glancing to Michael. His face was pale in the moonlight, but oh, he was _looking_ at him. 

“Now, I think I have a little method that might help you with your little impulse control problem when it comes to thinking before you speak!” He reached to his ankle, pulling up the leg of his jean enough to unearth the knife he stored in his boot. “Can’t talk with no tongue!”

“What the fuck?” Kevin mumbled, dazed. His eyes were swollen shut.

“Hey,” said Michael, behind him. “Trevor, don’t--”

“Relax, Mikey, I’m not gonna kill him!” The metal of the blade gleamed under the stars as he raised it upwards. He reached for Kevin’s jaw, prying it open. “Open wide!”

Kevin fought back, weakly. Trevor punched him again at the resistance, knocking him into full unconsciousness. His mouth went slack, easy enough to stick his fingers in, reaching for his slippery tongue. He flipped the knife in his palm, moving in, when an arm wrapped around his throat from behind. Michael pulled at him, trying to force him off. 

“T, _stop!”_

“Fuck you, Michael!” he yelled, trying to force him off. “This fuck deserves it!”

“ _Trevor!”_

Michael pulled at him, dislodging him where he sat atop Kevin, dragging him off and onto the mulch on his knees. His arm gripped down tighter around his neck, Trevor kicking and thrashing in his hold. His other hand wrapped around Trevor’s wrist, twisting his arm to force the knife from his grip. He struggled to breathe as Michael held down tighter, his hands flying up to scratch at his arm. The ring Michael had kept, the one he now wore, caught his eye. It wasn’t real. None of this was real. No matter how much he wanted it to be, it would never be real.

“Fuck you!” Trevor snarled, “Fuck you! I’ll rip his fucking throat out for his fucking lies!” 

He sucked in breath tightly through clenched teeth, seeing red, Michael’s face pressing against his own as he struggled to keep hold. “Trevor, calm down.”

“You’re weak, Michael! You weak piece _of shit_ , don’t fucking tell me to calm down!” 

His cheek pressed up against his own, his breath smelling like cigarettes, his body so hot against his back. His skin was slick with sweat. “T, come on. Come back. Relax.”

Trevor yelled. He kicked and snarled, his teeth snapping. He wanted to kill. He wanted to rip to slit to stab, he wanted to feel the life bleed out in his fingers. He wanted to make Michael see what he was doing to him, what he had turned him into. He wanted to-- he wanted--

“Come back, man,” said Michael, his voice rough, his lips against his ear, “Come back to me, T, relax.”

He inhaled. Vertebrae by vertebrae, the tension in his back subsided, his legs going out from beneath him. Michael eased him down onto his ass, sitting behind him, Trevor between his parted thighs as they panted together. 

Michael didn’t loosen his hold. Trevor craned his neck back, his head resting on Michael’s shoulder. He closed his eyes.

“Man,” Trevor laughed. “I’ll admit, I lost my temper for a minute, there. I--”

The arm dropped, Michael moving out from behind him abruptly. Trevor snapped a hand out to keep himself upright, crashing onto his elbow in the wood chips. “What the fuck, M?”

Michael didn’t say anything.

“Oh, Jesus, what’s your fuckin’ problem now?”

“You,” snapped Michael. “ _You_ are my fucking problem.”

“Oh yeah?” Trevor looked at him. He leaned forward onto his knees, standing up to his feet. “‘Cause I don’t take some asshole saying shit about us--”

“ _Us?_ ” Michael threw his hands out. “There is no ‘us’, Trevor.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

He shook his head, turning away. 

“Mike?”

“I--” He stopped. He ran a hand over his face. “I can’t do this, Trevor.”

“Yeah, you’ve made that fuckin’ clear. Lettin’ your wife fuckin’ hit you, cops roaming free in your house.” He gestured to Kevin’s prostrated form, making vague sounds in his unconscious state. “You forgot your kid’s birthday, for fuck’s sakes. That’s why you need _me_ , to help you with--”

“No, Trevor. Me and you. _This_ ,” he said, his voice cracking. He didn’t look at him. “I can’t fucking do _this_ anymore. With you. I can’t-- I can’t do this.” 

His jaw worked fiercely, as he stood there, Michael refusing to look at him. “What are you saying?”

“You need to go.”

“Oh, is that what your precious Mandy wants? You always let her--”

Michael turned his head to him, his face split by darkness. “ _I_ need you to go.”

He stood there for a moment. That feeling bubbled up inside of him, ugly and unfettered, his teeth grit. Michael was staring at him with such conviction, his eyes so dark and awful. He wanted to get lost in there forever.

“Fine,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re acting so fucking soft, anyway, why the fuck would I want to be around a fuckin’ shell of a man like you?”

Michael didn’t answer him. Instead, he stepped over to Kevin, swearing quietly under his breath.

Trevor stood there, waiting for Michael to do something. Michael talked big game. He wouldn’t really send him away. He’d come for him when he’d called, after all, driven all that way for him. Helped him hide the hand, killed a man to prove he was still invested. Kissed him so sweetly. Put a gun to his head. They belonged to each other. Michael _belonged_ to him.

“Michael,” he said, quietly. “Mikey, come on, man. Don’t be like this.”

He didn’t seem to hear him. His hand went to his face, but all Trevor saw was the tight line of his shoulders, his bowed head.

Trevor reached for his shoulder. “M--”

His hand was knocked away. “Don’t.”

“ _Fuck you!_ ” he snapped. “You don’t give a fuck about anyone but yourself, you--”

“I care about my _family_ , Trevor! My fuckin’ family! You _threatened_ my wife and--”

“ _I’m_ supposed to be your family!” he roared, getting into his face. 

Michael went silent. His hands raised, palms facing outward. He took a step back. Trevor looked at him, looked at his shaking hands, his heart crumbling into dust.

He stepped back. The wind rustled through the trees, the swings shaking in their chains. 

Trevor’s jaw worked. His eyes felt wet. “I’m sorry, Mikey. I didn’t mean it, I-- you know how I lose control sometimes, man, that’s why I need you to-- I fucked up! It’s my fault, I always fuck everything up.”

“Trev--”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He choked out a sob. “Don’t--”

“Please just go, T. Just go.” 

“Where, Michael?”

“Anywhere but here.”

He looked at Michael, at his strong shoulders, the deep circles under his eyes. His eyes shining in the darkness. He took a step back, hitting the edge of the see-saw with his hip. He kept his eyes on him, even as Michael turned away, tending to the man he’d left bloody on the ground.

The ring on his finger was almost heavy, like there was some chain binding him, dragging behind him. He worked it off his finger, flinging it far away. It disappeared into the darkness, forgotten.

Trevor started walking. He looked back, but Michael wasn’t looking at him.

* * *

She heard the engine turn off, a car door slam outside. She hadn’t heard it leave in the first place, operating on auto-pilot as she washed wine glasses in a froth of sudsy water. She could’ve used the dishwasher, but she had to keep her hands busy, her mind. She’d been cleaning tirelessly for an hour, two hours, unable to rest as the night deepened.

A few moments later, the front door opened and closed. She placed the base of the glass down on the counter, reaching back in with a reddened hand. She’d made the water so hot it burned. It gave her something to focus on.

Amanda braced herself. She looked to the front entrance. Only Michael stepped through. No one else.

He didn’t say anything. He dropped his keys on the island, now clean save for the half-empty bottles of spirits, a bottle of red wine. She’d put all the food away, cleaned up all of the garbage, but the backyard still bore the scars of the party. Empty chairs and empty tables stood like gravestones in the grass. The hanging lanterns caught the exterior light, washing the back patio in red.

Her shoulders tightened as he stepped up beside her, reaching for a tumbler. He poured himself a few fingers of whiskey, taking it over to the kitchen table. When he sat down in the chair it was heavy, like his legs wouldn’t hold him any longer.

She shook the water off her hands, reaching for a dishtowel, casting glances at him over her shoulder. His back faced her. 

“Michael?” she said, quietly. The dishrag sagged off the tap, falling into the water, submerging. She twisted the dishtowel in her hand. “Michael, what happened? Is everything--”

“It’s dealt with.” She could only see his back. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Everything’s fine.”

She set the towel on the island, cautiously stepping towards him. “And... Trevor?” 

Michael didn’t answer. 

She rounded the table, setting her hand on the back of a chair to get a proper look at him. He didn’t have any blood on his hands. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and when he looked up at her, it was like he didn’t really see her. 

He looked away. He ran a hand over his face, reaching for his glass as he slouched over the table.

“You didn’t kill him, did you? Kevin?”

“You think I’m a fuckin’ idiot?” he snapped. “No, I didn’t fuckin’ kill him.”

“Then, wh--”

“It’s dealt with,” he said. “I said don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” she said, numbly. “Don’t tell me anything, then. We’ll both just pretend everything’s fine. That none of that happened. You never tell me anything, anyway, why would you start now?”

Amanda turned, walking back to the sink. She almost wished he’d never come back. That he’d just taken off into the night, and never come back. 

She stared out the window. She wondered where he might have buried the body. If there was a body. If he’d used all that money he’d taken to pay him off. She wondered if she’d have to listen to Katie cry about how he never called anymore. She reached for another glass marked with cracked red lipstick stains, submerging it into the water.

“You--” Michael started, “You need a hand?”

She didn’t answer him. 

Behind her, she heard a hitch of breath. A choked laugh. The sound of an elbow hitting the table. His deep, wet breathing. 

Amanda turned to look. Michael had his head down.

Their entire relationship, she’d seen him cry once. She’d been so doped up on painkillers, she’d lost so much blood, but she’d never forgotten how twisted and ugly his face had looked. Jimmy’s birth had been so difficult, and she’d only gotten to hold her husband’s hand for a moment before they’d wheeled her off to emergency. She’d only seen him cry once.

“Michael?” she said, softly. She went to him. Gingerly, she put a hand on his shoulder. He edged away from her touch, his face hidden in his hand. “Michael, talk to me.”

But Michael didn’t speak. He didn’t say a goddamn word.


	5. THE MIDDLE FINGER

When he put the car into park, it started snowing. Neon green light from the Taco Bomb sign burned through the murky grey layer of fog that had settled, his breath visible in the car interior as the engine cooled. 

Michael put his forehead down on the steering wheel. His was the only car in the parking lot at two in the morning. He wasn’t sure if it was more or less pathetic to go through the drive-thru and eat in his car, or go inside.

He lifted his head only to the sound of another car pulling in and parking near the entrance. Leaning back in his seat, the back of his skull bounced on the head rest. He waited for the driver to get out first, but he didn’t. Great. Now he _had_ to go in. 

The stench of bleach, meat and rancid oil from the deep fryer assaulted his senses as Michael stepped inside. A halogen light overhead flickered and buzzed, soft rock bleeding through the tinny speakers mounted on the walls. It was almost his home away from home, these days. The teenage boy with one headphone in at the till looked up as he approached, and Michael tried not to let it show on his face how much he hated that the kid recognized him.

“Hey, man,” said Jose, as his battered name tag declared. He leaned hard on the register, lower lip thick with a wad of chew. “Same as usual?”

“Jesus, are we at that point already?” Michael rubbed a hand over his temple. “I got a ‘usual?’”

“You want somethin’ else, then?”

Michael sighed. “No. Usual’s fine.”

Tray in hands, he took his usual seat by the window. The plastic booth was hard against his back, stiff from countless nights spent exiled to the couch, but it wasn’t like he went to fucking Taco Bomb for any type of comfort. The lukewarm, probably microwaved tacos were more akin to punishment, if anything. He tried not to think about it, cramming a hefty amount of stale shell and gooey cheese into his mouth. Self-pity tasted halfway decent, at least.

He glanced upwards as the other patron, a relatively unassuming man with a thinning hair and a godawful mustache, took his own seat a few tables away. Michael straightened up, suddenly self-conscious about the rate he’d been shoving food into his mouth, like it was going to get up and leave him like everything else seemed to. 

The other man had only bought a coffee. He leaned back in his booth, opening the paper. Michael eyed it cautiously, lifting the straw of his soda to his mouth. The paper was at least a week old. On the front cover, a woman recounted her life-or-death experience at the hands of armed, crazed bank robbers. Read more on page six.

A weird feeling started in his gut. He put his cup down, thumbing at the corner of his lips. He’d made some good coin on that last score, sure, but it had been tense. Not in a good way. 

The man rustled the paper, looking at him. Their eyes met, for a moment. Michael looked away, turning back to his rapidly congealing food. He didn’t feel hungry all of a sudden.

“Rough night?” said the man, looking down at his paper.

Michael didn’t say anything, for a moment. He reached for a taco. “What’s it to you?”

He shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

“Yeah, sorry to break it to ya, bud, but I’m not here for conversating,” Michael said. “I come to this fine establishment for the fine cuisine as you can see, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to eat my late night shame tacos in peace.”

“Got something to be ashamed of?”

Michael’s hand thumped down on the table, as he set it down a little too roughly. So maybe the flask in his jacket was a little lighter than it should’ve been. It had just been a slip of the tongue. He didn’t have anything to be ashamed of. So what if his wife could barely stand to be in the same room as him. So what if his kids wouldn’t hug him. So what if earlier that night he’d put a gun under his chin and strongly considered pulling the trigger. He didn’t have anything to be fucking ashamed of.

His fingers started shaking. He rubbed his knuckles over his forehead, trying to massage the thoughts away. He was fine. Everything was fine.

The man stood up, walking to the table next to him. He sat on the chair, facing him on a diagonal, a space between them. He took the lid off his coffee, then lifted it to his mouth, looking at Michael over the rim. 

“Buddy,” said Michael, dropping his hand, “No offense, but are you fucking deaf?”

He put his coffee down, the end of his moustache damp. “It’s Dave.”

“Great. Dave. What the fuck do you want?”

“I don’t want anything. I just saw a man, sitting alone. I thought maybe you could use some company.” He gestured to the mangled tray of tacos, his own cup of shitty fast food coffee. “As you might have noticed, I can relate.”

Michael snorted. “That’s pretty fuckin’ presumptuous of you, Dave.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” said Michael, icily, “I’m sure you’ve got it in your head that we’re some kind of kindred fuckin’ spirits because, like me, you got a ring on your finger, and, like me, you’re in this shithole at this time of night instead of home with your wife. But buddy, you don’t know me. You don’t know a _fuckin’ thing_ about me.”

Michael turned away, slouching low in the booth. Dave smiled, glancing towards the counter, where Jose had disappeared into the back. It was just the two of them in the empty restaurant, the soft rock radio station thin and strained through the speakers. 

“You’re right,” Dave said, mildly, reaching for his coffee. “I don’t know you.”

For awhile, they sat in silence. Michael thought about getting up to leave. For some reason, he didn’t. Dave read his week old paper, and sipped at his coffee. 

He finished his soda, but it had gone flat, watery as the ice melted. Looking sidelong at Dave’s face, he took in the puffiness of his eyes, the jowls that dragged down his whole mouth, that seemed to leave him permanently frowning. Michael realized he was matching that expression, dragging a hand over his mouth to try to smooth it away. It didn’t work.

Dave turned a page. The seat creaked as he leaned back.

Michael looked at his hands.

“You know,” he started, after a moment, his voice wavering, “maybe you got a point.”

“About what?” Dave asked, not looking up from his paper.

Michael shook his head. “This is the first time in, I don’t know, forever, that I’ve sat next to somebody else without it turnin’ into a fight. Didn’t even know it was possible anymore, to tell you the honest truth.”

“Things that bad with the wife, huh?”

“Jesus Christ, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” He sucked in a deep breath, nodding. “Yeah. It’s _that_ bad.”

“Ah.”

“Not just with her. My kids. My best friend.” The corners of his eyes creased, and he leaned forward with his elbows to the table, hand to his mouth. “Can’t seem to make a single fuckin’ person happy no matter what I do.”

He flipped a page. “Tough, isn’t it? Being a man in this day and age.”

“You’re fuckin’ A right it’s tough. You work hard to provide, they complain you’re away too much. You try to help ‘em out, y’know, _be involved_ , they tell you you’re being controlling, that you’re telling ‘em how to live their life. And you can forget ever asking for anything you want, then you’re bein’ selfish. Better off just doin’ fuck all, same disappointment with a lot less effort.”

Dave chuckled. “Sounds familiar.”

“Christ. I never fuckin' talk about this kind of stuff." Michael rubbed at the back of his neck, looking up through his lashes, feeling oddly embarrassed. "I'm sure you didn't come here for some kinda sob story.”

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know." Dave had lowered the paper, was giving him his full attention.

Michael smiled, if only a little. It felt nice, someone just _listening_ for once. “You know, you ain’t a bad guy, Davey. Sorry for giving you a hard time-- you know how it is.”

“No offense taken, Michael. I can see that you’re under a lot of stress.”

“Fuck, tell me about it. All I got is stress.”

Michael cupped his chin in his hand, glancing out the window. The snow was coming down heavier. His smile faded. He hadn’t given his name.

His shoulders went tense. He didn’t move. His gun was inside his jacket, but even if he reached for it, there was the possibility that they were already surrounded. Sweat started at the back of his neck, his pulse thrumming hard in his neck.

Slowly, Michael sat up straight. He turned his head to Dave, who’d laced his fingers together ahead of him on the table, was looking at him with an unreadable expression. It was just the two of them, alone, the halogen lights buzzing overhead.

“I can’t say this is exactly how I expected it would happen, but-- I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long, long time,” said Dave, quietly. “The infamous Michael Townley, in the flesh.”

“Waiting for what?” Michael asked, incredulously. “The moment where you _arrest_ me?”

“I’m not going to arrest you, Michael.”

“But you’re a cop?” 

“No.”

His eyes narrowed. “A fed?”

Dave just looked at him.

“Oh, fuck me. You IAA? FIB? How do I know the place isn’t already surrounded? That the whole joint ain’t bugged, this isn’t being recorded?” He exhaled loudly, running a hand over his hair. 

“It’s just me here, Mike. No one else.”

“Oh yeah? How the fuck am I supposed to believe you?”

Dave sat back. He put one hand forward, palm out. “I’m going to reach into my jacket, Michael.”

“Oh, for your gun, so you can put a bullet in my head? Saves me the fuckin’ trouble, at least.”

“I’m not armed, Michael.”

“Yeah, bullshit. You might not be, but the NOOSE unit you probably got waitin’ outside sure as shit didn’t come just for the authentic Mexican flavour!”

“I’m not lying to you. Let me prove it. I’m going to reach into my jacket-- I want to show you something.”

He tensed as Dave’s hand disappeared, but held his eyes. Dave produced a small plastic baggie, sealed with yellow tape. He put it down on the table, pushing it forward.

Hesitantly, Michael leaned forward for a closer look. It was a bullet.

“A few months back,” Dave started, “one of our task forces was directed to the burnt out husk of a van, one associated with a biker gang operating out of the surrounding states, the Angels of Death. This was pulled out of the body. Ballistics determined it matched a bullet we found at a recent bank job in Devil's Lake. Or it would’ve--” He tapped the bag, “--if I hadn’t swapped it out, anyway.”

Re-lacing his fingers, he leaned forward, holding Michael’s gaze. “I’ve been following your work for a long time. Following you, learning your patterns. It took me a long time to pin you down. I know your MO, Michael, and I know you’ve never used a weapon we were able to trace back to you, before. And I don’t think you’re being sloppy. I know you’re smarter than that. I think, like you said-- you’re stressed.”

“So, what? You’re-- protecting me or something?” Michael’s brows lowered, and he shook his head. “I don’t get it. What’s in this for you?”

“During my investigation, I picked up on a secondary pattern. Those assholes back at the bureau said I was grasping at straws, ‘Dave, quit it with the obsession’-- but I didn't. I looked closer.” Dave smoothed down his moustache, then cupped his jaw in his hand. “Like clockwork, after a bank hit, sometimes days later, sometimes weeks, the disappearances start. Usually married men, or couples. Sometimes they turn up-- usually in pieces. Sometimes they don’t.”

Michael looked away. He stared out the window, clenching his hands into fists on his lap. They weren’t shaking, not at all. He wasn’t thinking about fleeing the scene of that last hellish score, wasn’t thinking about Trevor’s haunted eyes in the rear-view mirror, and how he could never seem to look away. 

“What I’m saying is, Mike,” Dave murmured, “is that I don’t think you’re a bad guy. I don’t think you’re a good guy either, but, well, what I’m saying is, I think you’ve made some bad choices--”

He snorted. “Ain’t that the understatement of the fuckin’ century.”

Dave smiled at him. It was strange. Almost paternal. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t hate it, either.

“Michael, I don’t think you’re bad, or not _as_ bad, as, well-- Michael, you’re intelligent. Successful. I think you’re a reasonable man who knows an opportunity when he sees it. What I’m really trying to say is, you and me-- we could help one another.”

Michael looked at Dave sidelong. He didn’t outwardly react. 

Dave nodded, finishing off the last of his coffee, smacking his lips as he set the empty paper cup back down on the table. He stood up, Michael bristling defensively in preparation. It was too good to be true. A fed wasn’t going to just walk away, just like that.

“Well, I’m glad we could finally have this little chat, but for now, I wouldn't want to wear out my welcome.” He smoothed down the front of his jacket, looking down at the yellow-taped bag on the table. “As a gesture of goodwill, I’ll let you keep that as a souvenir. It can be our little secret.” 

Michael reached forward, pocketing it. He looked up to Dave’s face, schooling his expression. “I appreciate your discretion, Dave.”

“And one more thing,” Dave said, reaching into his jacket once more. 

Michael’s hands twitched for his gun, but he resisted. If Dave wanted him dead he’d already be bleeding out all over the plastic booth like a smashed packet of hot sauce. 

Dave pulled a white card out with two fingers, offering it to him. Michael paused for a moment, before reaching forward. Their fingers brushed as he took it, and he looked down, at the monogrammed print. It seemed that the so-called Dave Norton, FIB Agent, wasn’t bullshitting him.

“You decide you're up for a little more 'conversating,'” said Dave, “you give me a call.”

“No offense, but why the fuck would I call you on what I can only assume is a monitored line?”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Dave said, dryly. “Check the other side.”

Michael scowled, flipping it. In pen, another number was scrawled onto the back. 

“My personal number. You can call me anytime.”

“And if I don’t?” said Michael.

Dave shook his head. “Then you don’t. But I hope you do-- for your own sake.”

Michael tapped the card on the table, lifting his chin. “How do I know there isn’t a team of your guys already waiting at my house?”

“You don’t, Michael. You’re just gonna have to trust me.” 

He grabbed his newspaper, his empty coffee cup, walking to the trash bin to deposit it. He tucked the newspaper under his arm, then waved a hand, turning on his heel. Michael watched him shuffle all the way to the front door, fumbling and swearing as he tried to push the door open rather than pulling, before exiting. Michael drew in an unsteady breath, anticipating the imminent raid. It never happened. Dave got into his car, turned on the engine, and simply drove away.

Michael waited. He held the pure white card in his hand, unable to take his eyes off it. Outside, the sky was the same colourless shade, the sky washed out by fat, fluffy snowflakes. It didn’t seem to be stopping.

When he finally stood, it felt like breaking out of a long slumber. His knees felt uneasy beneath him. Reaching for his back pocket, he took out his wallet, storing the card safely. He walked to the door, the lights from the menu boards at the till bright and red against his back. 

“Oh, hey, man!” called Jose, leaning down against the front counter. “Didn’t even realize you were still here.” 

He turned, taking in the kid’s slack face, his reddened eyes. His dopey, too familiar smile. “Yeah, well,” Michael said, reaching for the door, “I’m goin’.”

“So, same time tomorrow night?”

“You know what?” A crooked smile pulled at Michael’s lips. “No-- no, I don’t think so.”

“Oh yeah? Then the night after?”

“Nope. Just think it’s time I made a change, kid.”

Jose frowned. “You goin’ somewhere or something?”

"Dunno yet." Michael chuckled, pulling the door open. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [NEW GAME](https://youtu.be/0KLnF1USxjc?t=38s)

**Author's Note:**

> HIGHANDHOLY.TUMBLR.COM


End file.
